With Perfect Abandonment
by Sincerely Yours- C.M.D
Summary: *AU* Life for one autodog vet is about to take a drastic change- for better or for worse, even he doesn't know yet. Ratchetxjettwins; multiple pairings included. Kittycon/Autodog verse. Mpreg,Mech/Mech slash,twincest, mild language
1. Chapter 1

**C.M.D: Back by popular demand! This is my most recent, popular, currently running fic, inspired by the wonderful Kittycon/Autodog mythos of DA users such as _Krazifreak, SallyChan_ and many more. Originally posted on here, I'm reposting as a censored version. For _uncensored_ reading pleasure, please follow one of the links in my profile to another site.**  
><strong>Things to note, I do use an age system, to assist with the passage of time and correlation of events. Full age charts are available on my DA; also, characters do age and will be noted when it becomes important again to the story.<strong>  
><strong>Younglings: 12-18 yrs<strong>  
><strong>Sparklings: 2-11<strong> ** yrs**  
><strong>Age of consent for sex and marriage with guardian consent: 16 yrs<strong>

* * *

><p>Ratchet wasn't entirely sure why he was here.<p>

"You really need to start accepting others," the vet growled, rubbing at the bridge of his olfactory sensors. The other 'bot before him, also an autodog, merely shook his helm; empty, calculative blue optics remaining fixed on Ratchet.

"Unnecessary," Perceptor answered in his emotionless vocalizer. As they usually did, the border collie's ears were perked up in constant attentiveness. They did not twitch or fold, even as the mech continued his explanation. "No other autodog qualified."

"Qualified?," Ratchet snorted, grabbing a steaming mug of hot oil off his desk. He took a drink from the cup, revelling in the feel of the black liquid bringing his sensors to full capacity. Feeling more active now, the labrador turned his focus back on Perceptor. "That's a fancy way for saying that you don't trust any of the other mechs in this whole slagging department."

Perceptor did not respond.

Ratchet released a weary intake, setting his cup down and picking up the datapad that Perceptor had first brought in with him. He had put it off to the side initially, intent on refusing the border collie what he wanted -after all, the autodog would have to eventually come out of his shell. All this withdrawal and lack of interaction with the others was a hazard to the scientist's already hectic life. But apparently, Perceptor was not going to back down on this, and the vet was feeling just a little too tired to bother fighting with the mech this day.

"They're younglings now, yes?," the labrador asked distractedly, pouring over the datapad's contents.

"Correct," came Perceptor's answer.

Ratchet frowned as he scrolled down the file. "They haven't had a check-up or shot since they were wee sparklings? And -wait, what, I was the last 'bot to administer both?! Perceptor!" The labrador growled at the motionless border collie, who, to his credit, remained amazingly unmoved by the vet's wrath. "Just what the slag were you thinking?!," Ratchet yelled. "Sparklings require constant scans. They can get infected, break servos and whatnot, develop viruses -a responsible parent is supposed to bring them every few months for check-ups."

Perceptor blinked.

"Why have you waited so long to get them looked at?," Ratchet continued, his growl seeping further into his shout as frustration grew. Perceptor could be so fragging apathetic sometimes. "What the slag am I to do with a medical background like this?!"

"Perform all necessary scans and administer necessary firewalls and binary coding," was the other autodog's answer.

There was an audible grinding noise as Ratchet's jaw snapped shut, denta plating screeching against one another at the vet's scandalized shock. Perceptor must of have had some serious cybertronium-steeled back struts to talk to him like that. Cycling a couple heavy intakes to calm himself down, the labrador dutifully turned his back on the smaller mech, shuffling through the rest of his datapads. "Very well, Perceptor," the 'bot acquiesced. "Bring your sons in; I'll give them the mandatory scans."

"I am grateful for your acceptance," the border collie replied. The scientist turned on his pede and left the room quietly. Releasing another exasperated intake, Ratchet gathered all necessary materials, discarding his mug of oil still sitting on his desk and exiting his office.

If he was going to do this exam, then he would need something stronger to keep his systems running fully.

**xxXxXxx**

Downtown of Iacon was like one giant plaza. All major facilities were positioned in a hexagonal formation around city hall -the hospital and medical research department, the science department, the communications department, the energon processing plant- with several smaller businesses and a mall thrown into the mix. Border collie tails wagging merrily, two younglings stepped out from a small ice cream parlour just beside the hospital; a cone in each of their servos. Atop of each of their helms, one set of golden and the other orange kittycon ears twitched with the passing breeze.

"Nice so, yes brother?," one asked, visor lifted to the beautiful blue sky as he licked at his energon cone.

"Mhmmm," the other answered, mouth occupied with his own ice cream. He finished his mouthful before properly replying to his brother. "Yes, Jetstorm. Nice very being today. 'Bots outside should be, indoors not."

The mixed mech identified as Jetstorm grinned at his twin's -Jetfire- words. He could only agree with his brother -today was very nice. The weather was moderate for late spring, just touching on the summer heat, with a warm gentle breeze drifting by every once in a while to stir lazily about their helms or knees. The sun was out and there were only a few clouds in the sky; flat and fluffy, they hovered in the air above, sliding along almost sluggishly. A perfect day to be out and play, have oneself an energon goodie or two. Still, despite the distraction, Jetstorm couldn't help but to wonder...

"Brother, presence making necessary be inside?," he asked his twin, lowering his cone as he turned to Jetfire.

The other mech turned his attention to his brother. "Meaning I be, Uncle Wheeljack being insistent we stay the put," Jetstorm continued, trying to explain his slight worry to his sibling. Jetfire merely smiled at his twin's words, sidling closer and grasping the other's free servo.

"Not worry, Jetstorm," the other 'bot replied. "Not doing the bad are we; just going out. Back we be shortly."

The blue hybrid still had some doubts, but he soon agreed to his brother's train of thought. It wasn't often that they were allowed outside, especially on their own. Usually they were stuck indoors for lessons, or granted exit for small outings to the supermarket or other such necessary facilities. The twins were hardly ever given the chance to simply hang out at the mall or at the park. The constant restrictive lifestyle they led could be excruciatingly wearisome sometimes...

"Where heading next we be go- oomph!"

Jetstorm was cut off from his next inquiry as he accidentally slammed into someone, the intakes being forced from his slight form with the collision. Tripping over his pedes as he tried to back-pedal, the youngling fell to his aft; Jetfire attempting to reach out and catch his twin before that happened, but failing. The hybrid mech rubbed at the pain on his chassis, lifting his helm to apologize to the other 'bot that he had bumped into. The words stuttered and then disappeared in a streak of static in his vocalizer as he saw the hateful expression on the stranger's faceplates.

"Stupid half-breed!," the mech growled, cat ears twisted back on his helm with rage. His red optics glanced down on the energon ice cream soaking into his shirt, before snapping back up to Jetstorm. "What, can't you watch where you're walking?"

Beside the kittycon, his two friends leered down upon the twins; their sneers menacing and twisted. "That's disrespect isn't it," said the 'bot on the left. "Dirty blooded Pit-spawns like yourselves should be more respectful to your superiors, dontcha think? Making a mess like this... You've sullied his shirt now with your nasty germs, so how do you plan to pay for it?"

"P-pay?," Jetfire stuttered in shock. "I-i don't..."

"If you don't have the credits, there are certainly other ways for you to pay us back," the third kittycon smirked, optics darkening with lust. Their leader -the one with the energon stain on his shirt- grinned along with his comrade, reaching forward and pulling Jetstorm to his pedes by the neck of his sweater.

"I agree...," the mech rumbled. The sound was disgusting to hear to the two younglings, who had finally clued in to what the kittycons were talking about. "Let us go and find a nice, quiet spot and we can do our... negotiations... there."

"Not we think!," Jetstorm protested, pulling against the larger 'bot's hold. "Not be going with you any of the where."

The kittycon snarled at the protest, lifting the hybrid higher, pedes kicking through the air as Jetstorm tried to return to the ground again. "Let go him!," Jetfire shouted, running forward and swinging at the mech. In surprise at the youngling's ferocity, the kittycon complied to the command... by throwing Jetstorm into his approaching twin. The both of them fell to the ground, skinning knee and elbow joints in the process. Laughing cruelly, the kittycons watched as the twins struggled to quickly rise to their pedes again, disentangling themselves from the other.

"'Let go him'?," one of the 'bots taunted. "What, can't you speak proper cybertronian or something? What kind of malfunction do you have?"

"Listen," the leader started again, ignoring his chortling comrades, "It doesn't have to be this way. Just be good little femmes and follow us. We promise it'll be a good time... More than what you half-breeds deserve."

"No," Jetstorm and Jetfire answered simultaneously. They glared at the kittycons, feeling disgusted, enraged and confused, all at once. Disgusted because the big oafs were under the presumption that the younglings would willingly follow them anywhere, where they would more than likely be beaten and then forced into a unwilling interface after. Acting as if by doing all this, they were performing a charity to the twins. They were enraged because people always seemed to look at them strangely when they were outside -averting obvious glances or ignoring their presence altogether. Sometimes though, people were just a little mean to them, and without reason it always seemed. Today though had to be the first time anyone was so verbally insulting to them, calling them half-breeds and being quite cruel. And they were confused too, because... well...

The kittycons stepped closer, and the twins fell into a defensive stance. They knew that as respectful citizens it would be proper for them to simply turn and leave, but with the other mechs being so persistent it was unlikely they would be allowed to walk away peacefully. As the thugs took another step forward, Jetstorm and Jetfire glanced at each other, sharing a silent message with their optics. Fists clenching, they waited for the moment when the looming 'bots would be just a little closer; enough for their servos to reach out and-

"Oww!"

The twins jumped at the head kittycon's shout, watching stunned as the mech stumbled forward a little bit, grasping his helm between his servos. His ears were flattened against his helm, and as he regained his balance, instead of turning to face the younglings, he turned and looked behind him -to the old autodog standing behind the trio, a frown on his faceplates. In one servo was a heavy medical datapad, which had obviously been the object that had caused the kittycon pain from the way that the labrador held it. In the autodog's other servo was a large cup of oil, hot and fresh from the nearby PawBucks.

"If you know what's good for you," the stranger growled, "the three of you will scatter, before I decide to perform some... necessary... medical amputations. _Without morphine_."

The kittycons' tails bristled at the subtle threat, but their faceplates paled considerably at the thought of what the irate vet might do to them. Gathering themselves quickly, muttering threats and possible half-sparked apologies under their intakes, the mechs quickly dashed off; soon disappearing out of sight altogether. Jetfire and Jetstorm -still stunned by the sudden intervention- could only blink at the kittycons' departure, hardly noticing the old labrador approaching them. They eventually snapped out of their trance, when the autodog waved a servo before their optics, drawing the twins' attention.

"Hmph," the labrador sniffed as the younglings looked up at him. "Well, at least you're fully functional. If I may, I suggest that both you ladies head on home now. No need to have another run-in with those overcharged mechs." His piece said, the stranger turned about on his pede, walking off and towards the hospital from whence he had first come from.

Jetfire and Jetstorm continued to remain where they were standing, fully baffled now. Slowly, their cheekplates began to heat up; sparks spinning erratically in their chassis as their fuel tanks sputtered in strange, quirky patterns. They both turned to face each other, noticing the blush evident on the other's faceplates. "B-brother, you...?," Jetfire asked.

"Y-yes," Jetstorm answered, not needing to hear the rest of his twin's question to understand what was being asked. After all, he could feel it too...

That slow-enacting emotional programming that was the prequel to a crush. Stupid really, their logistics argued, considering the chances of them ever meeting the autodog again were awfully slim. All the same, that had to be the first time that anyone -aside from their family and tutors- had looked at them, like, _really looked_, and treated them as if they were a person as well; without disgust, scorn or any other similar, negative emotions on their faceplates. And the mech had been so gracious as to defend the younglings as well against those thuggish kittycons... though the act was not really necessary. The twins were quite capable of handling their own in a fight. Still, such treatment... they had never received such before, and Jetstorm and Jetfire couldn't help the oncoming crush that arose from the mysterious vet's chivalrous deeds. They were quick to overlook the fact that the autodog was older than their own creator and obviously a bit of a grouch as well, focusing on his rugged, tempered good looks and fortitude.

"He... he was...," Jetstorm swooned, cupping his servos to his chassis.

"Oh, not be gotting his name though!," Jetfire bemoaned, still blushing as he thought about the labrador. Jetstorm noticed this as well and quickly became subdued as well. It was only by perchance that he glanced at the watch about his wrist, noting what time it was.

"Ah! Brother, must back we go to Uncle Wheeljack!," the blue hybrid exclaimed, waving his arm before his twin. "Late it being, late really! Worried they be will if not we hurry."

The orange 'bot managed to finally glance at the hands displayed on his brother's watch and felt his own ears perk in surprise. It really was late! They had taken much longer than either had anticipated, what with those kittycons trying to start some trouble, and now they were super late returning to their engineer babysitter. No doubt they would be getting a stern lecture for this. Moving quickly, the twins turned about and began running back to the science building, from which they had first come from.

Only when they were within sight of the building did Jetstorm turn his helm to his brother, and ask the question that had been on both of their processors since the fiasco with those brutish kittycons, "Why all 'bots femmes are the believing we be?"

**xxXxXxx**

"What's taking them so long?"

Sitting in the only chair in the examination room, Wheeljack attempted to speak up, but the irate labrador's pacing shut him up real quick; the bulldog shifting his gaze off to the side when Ratchet's optics landed on him. "I was under the assumption that Perceptor was a stickler for punctuality," the vet growled, turning about on his pede again and starting another revolution.

"Well, he is," Wheeljack replied. "But, I mean... the twins, well they've got... this, ummm, habit you know, of, well... sneaking... off."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?," Ratchet grumbled to the air, pacing back and forth. His optics fell on the meek engineer, frown pulling at old lip components. "And you had trouble keeping an optic out on two full-grown boys?"

"C'mon, Ratchet! Give a mech a break," Wheeljack groaned. "They're wily, those two. They've got all of Perceptor's genius pretty much; none of his introversion. Bad, bad, bad combo..."

The labrador rolled his optics at the excuse, increasing the speed of his pacing. "I worry about him...," the vet began. Wheeljack's ears perked at the soft-spoken words, the bulldog's attention fixing entirely on the other autodog.

"You know how Percy is, Ratchet," the engineer mumbled back. "He's fine as long as he's got his projects and his sons. Doesn't need much else..."

"That's not true, Wheeljack, and you know it," Ratchet replied, coming to a pause once again. "I know I've let many things slide over the years, but I just can't let this continue. I may not have known the both of you before the night of the twins' birth, but even I can tell when a 'bot has self-mutilated themselves."

"S-self mutilation...?!," Wheeljack gasped, staring at Ratchet in shock. The labrador turned to the sitting bulldog, lip components pursed seriously.

"Mutilation doesn't just represent itself in physical harm, Wheeljack. Any damage done to the processor or inner circuitry as a direct will of a 'bot, going against one's natural coding, is considered mutilation. Can you really sit there and tell met that Perceptor was always so detached and withdrawn from everything around him?"

Wheeljack dropped his gaze to the floor, staring at the space between his pedes. Ratchet's explanation had been clear and precise, and even the engineer was hard-pressed not to admit that Perceptor's personality was incorrect coding; but to confess that out loud... "There's just some things I can't say, Ratchet. You know that."

Ratchet sighed at the evasive response, shoulders slumping with defeat. "I do, Wheeljack. I do. I just want to be able to help you both better," the vet said softly. "I can't do anything if I don't understand the whole picture. And you... don't tell me that this self-destructive behaviour of Perceptor's isn't affecting you either."

The bulldog didn't respond this time.

Frowning again, Ratchet began his pacing for a third time. He was pulled out of his rhythm when the door to the examination room finally opened; turning to it in time to see Perceptor walk in. "Took you long enough," Ratchet growled. "I'm off-duty, Perceptor, the least you can do is keep appointments you feel the need to harass me f-"

The labrador cut himself off as two other 'bots followed the scientist into the room, optics widening slightly in surprise at the two 'femmes' he had run into earlier. "...these are your sons?," the vet asked, keeping his voice neutral, crossing his arms across his chassis.

"Yes. We apologize for our lateness," Perceptor said. "There were come complications during our arrival here."

"Fine," Ratchet replied, dutifully keeping his optics off of the twins standing behind their creator still. "You can sit in my office until the examination is over then. Feel free to ask the front desk for some oil and the like."

At the dismissal, the border collie inclined his head slightly, turning to both of his sons. Ratchet peered out of the corner of his optic as he turned around and shuffled through the datapads sitting on the counter; watching as Perceptor patted each of his younglings' helms before kissing them each on the forehead. It was almost humorous to watch -the two mechs, nearly as tall as their creator, received the awkward affection with welcome; while the scientist seemed utterly perplexed and uncomfortable with his actions, in that apathetic manner that Perceptor did everything with. Ratchet quickly looked away when Perceptor made to draw back, listening as both border collie and bulldog exited the room, door closing behind them as they left.

Waiting a few astroseconds longer, Ratchet finally turned around and faced the younglings standing almost uncertainly at the doorway, feeling a frown pull at his lip components. "I must apologize," the vet started. "For earlier...," he elaborated, when the twins blinked in confusion. "I meant no insult, calling you femmes. I wasn't aware that you were Perceptor's sons."

"Oh," both younglings said. Ratchet blinked, frown growing a little more as he waited for them to say something more. The younger 'bots seemed to realize this because they glanced at each other, towards the vet, and then to the floor. "W-we confused are for mistake... but the sorries we be accepting from you."

Oh, they were confused? Ratchet lifted an optic ridge, looking the twins over. The clothes they were wearing, though sweaters and capris, were obviously of femme style and accentuated their frames' curves. Were they really not aware of how they appeared? Shaking his helm, the labrador decided to push that train of thought aside and get back to the task at hand. "It's been a long time since your last check-up, so there's a lot of scans and coding that needs to be done," Ratchet began, switching over into professional mode. "We'll start with the easy stuff first. Hop onto the berth please."

Pulling standard medical devices out of the drawer, Ratchet picked up the otoscope, turning to watch as the twins hurriedly climbed onto the examination table; settling servos in their laps and sitting up straight with attentiveness. "Jetfire and Jetstorm, right?," Ratchet asked, glancing at the younglings' medical datapad before approaching the berth himself.

"Yes," they answered together. "I Jetfire," the orange 'bot said. "And being Jetstorm I," the blue one added. The labrador nodded his head in acknowledgement, not bothering to question the oddity of their speech patterns. If that was the only strange thing they had developed under Perceptor's rearing, then there was nothing really for him to be concerned about.

"Name's Ratchet, kids. Though I'm sure Percpetor's already informed you of that. You're hybrids, aren't ya?," the vet said, gently grasping Jetstorm's ear and putting the otoscope into the furry appendage. The youngling squirmed a little, but otherwise did not protest to the action. "I can recognize the border collie tails, but your ears are distinctly not of the same type associated with that breed. The possibility of other autodog genetics are slim... the shape and fur are much too unalike. I would assume Kittycon CNA in that case."

Ratchet, satisfied, pulled away and went to check Jetfire's ears. He paused, when he noticed how tense the twins had gotten. "Don't be like that now...," the autodog began. "I'm not gonna judge you. These days it's not uncommon to find interspecies bondmates, and I've never made it a habit to form opinions about 'bots I hardly even know. I'm a vet... there's no room for such silly prejudice in the work I do. I'm just making an observation. I suppose that's why your creator finds it necessary to keep a constant optic on you. Not many others have adjusted to this modern change... and I know a lot more are outright hateful to a 'bot bearing mixed heritage. Like those punks earlier today."

"Making sense... that what you saying," Jetstorm mumbled softly. "Y-you not minding really?," his brother asked, jolting against the otoscope as he tried to look at Ratchet. The vet frowned, putting the medical instrument aside.

"No, I don't. Now would you just sit still and let me conduct your scans? The sooner we're done, the sooner your creator can have you back." Appeased with the younglings' obedience, the labrador turned to the rest of his tools; mentally listing the number of things he had to do before they were finished. Honestly, what had Wheeljack been talking about? The twins were very well-mannered and behaved for their age.

Jetfire and Jetstorm could feel their cheekplates heating up, and tried their very best to hide the rising blush.

This had to be Fate.

Primus, the chances of meeting the mech that they had fallen for again were slim to none. And yet, who else should be the vet to give them check-ups than the very autodog that had valiantly saved them earlier that joor! It had been near impossible to cover their surprise when they entered the room; harder still to hide their excitement and nervousness, now that they were alone with the labrador. Ratchet, they had to remind themselves, the autodog's name was Ratchet. And he didn't care that they were hybrids either! Such information made their sparks pulse in large, happy swells.

Not knowing what else to say, and quite content to simply bask in the vet's presence, Jetfire and Jetstorm remained silent as Ratchet went about his tasks; obediently following through each of the autodog's requests willingly. Through their bond -a typical development between twins- they chattered gaily.

_'So handsome, he not is, brother?,'_ Jetstorm sent over, visor fixated on Ratchet dreamily as he attended to Jetfire. The orange youngling had his sweater off, baring his chassis to the vet, who was at the moment intently studying the catches and seams precedent to the hybrid's spark casing.

_'Yes... And servos gentle much,'_ Jetfire practically purred back as Ratchet's servos lighted on his chassis, fingers stroking into the seams. Jetstorm felt a little envious of his twin, but quickly squashed such negative feelings when he felt phantasmal touches brushing along his own still covered chassis.

_'He check spark, brother?'_

They had not really been listening as Ratchet explained all the medical procedures he'd be running them through. _'Suppose yes, brother,' _the orange mech replied. Jetfire couldn't suppress the giggles that rose as the vet attached a series of tiny cables around the outside of his spark chamber. _'T-tickles does...'_

_'D-does!,'_ Jetstorm laughed back, as Ratchet approached him and put him through the same procedure. He could feel his spark swell exceptionally as those skilled servos brushed along his metal flesh, lost in simulations of being swept into those arms; having his ears and tails stroked by talented fingers, while Ratchet placed kisses on his lip components. He was almost startled to hear the labrador speak up again, interrupting his day-dreaming.

"Alright, well your sparks seem to be in good shape. A little erratic... but nerves have a tendency of doing that," Ratchet said, removing the sensors from Jetstorm's chassis. "We're almost done. If you'd be so kind to remove your pants and bend over the side of the berth please -I'll take a look at your interface equipment."

Jetfire himself slid off the examination table without a second thought at the instruction, fingers already pulling at the belt buckle of his capris. It took him a nanoklik to notice the heavy-like nauseous feeling in the pit of his fuel tanks, before he was turning to his focus to his brother; noticing the pale, frightened look on his twin's faceplates. "Brother?," the orange youngling asked, stepping closer to Jetstorm.

Jetstorm flinched at his approach, before pulling Jetfire close and burying his helm in the other's neck cables. Ratchet, having turned away for a moment to put away the rest of his tools, turned back towards the hybrids to find both of them still fully clothed. "What's the problem now? C'mon, the faster your do this, the faster we can get out of here."

"No!," Jetstorm cried from Jetfire's shoulder plating. Jetfire tried to calm his distraught twin, but he could feel the blue mech's own fear and anxiety seeping into his own spark, making him suddenly just as jittery. His servos tightened around his brother's form, the both of them shrinking away from Ratchet.

"W-we not wanting that do," Jetfire stammered, hiding his faceplates from the suddenly silent vet. "P-please m-making us do not."

Ratchet sighed, trading the instruments in his servos for the needle on the counter. He understood when the twins flinched as he approached again, but it did not lessen the frown he wore all the same. "Don't worry, this is just a shot," he explained, pushing back Jetfire's sleeve and injecting the needle. "Basic nanobots to increase your system's defense coding. I won't force you to show me your interface equipment -considering it's been so long since your last check-up, it's not all that surprising that you're scared. Next time though, I hope you'll be just a little more braver and can trust me."

He finished by giving the same shot to Jetstorm, before retreating from the younglings' side. "Alright, I'm just going to collect your creator. Feel free to join us when you're ready." Scooping up the twins' recently adjusted medical datapad, the labrador exited the room, leaving Jetfire and Jetstorm still sitting curled up inside.

"Brother?," Jetfire prompted again, once they were alone.

Jetstorm shifted, but did not emerge from his spot. For a while, the orange mech simply stroked his brother's ears; waiting for the moment when his twin would have calmed down enough to respond to him. Jetstorm eventually lifted his helm, wiping away the coolant that had started to pool about his visor. He kissed Jetfire on the mouth, trying to assure his brother, though the other hybrid could still feel his fear over their bond. The blue mech could tell that Jetfire was waiting for him to answer, and he sighed, preparing to reply to his brother's silent probing.

"I-i... Not handling see him t-that," Jetstorm whispered in explanation. "H-he of the disgust being me think seeing of o-our broken seals."

"J-jetstorm?," Jetfire asked. He was slightly puzzled. As twins, born from the same spark, it was not uncommon that they participated in everything together. Even when their first heat cycle had come, they had partaken in interfacing with each other; not concerned about the seals of their interface equipment, having not fully understood the suggestive importance placed upon them by the rest of society. There had never been any shyness or uncertainty when it came to being bare before others, especially between themselves, so the orange mech was having a difficult time understanding his brother's evasiveness to Ratchet's inspection.

Wouldn't baring the innermost important parts of their circuitry to the mech of their sparks be a good thing?

Words obviously could not describe what Jetstorm was feeling, so he shoved all his thoughts and emotions across their bond, and watched as Jetfire's face became pale and withdrawn as well. The other hybrid lowered his optics, cheekplates burning with shame. It all made sense now... As younglings, they were meant to be untouched, and as contained as they were, that would be the popular assumption. Even though Ratchet had been accepting of their mixed heritage, no doubt he would be disgusted and as well as repulsed by the sight of their broken seals. No mech would want a half-breed as ruined as they were.

"...n-not give still up the hope," Jetfire murmured, lifting his optics resolutely and catching his twin's gaze. Jetstorm stared back, stunned. Slowly though, a small smile tugged at his lip components.

"Saying so, brother," the blue youngling said, "Then hope keeping I do. Not wish the giving up of Ratchet sir yet just." Happier now, he nuzzled the other mech, purring when his twin returned the affection. "Let now go us find mommy."


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as the door was opened, the two younglings were running inside; racing for the couch before they dive-bombed the cushions, wrapping themselves up in the red, fluffy blankets that lay there. They purred in delight, settling down properly, turning their attention back to the two mechs just walking through the door. "Uncle Wheeljack," Jetfire chirruped. "Staying you for dinner?"

"Yes, yes -stay not will you? I making energon goodies dessert being," Jetstorm piped up beside his brother.

Wheeljack smiled at the invite. "Well, I must say that sounds mighty tempting... but I can only stay if your mommy says it's alright."

Perceptor turned his head as he shut the door, ignoring the cacophony of pleads coming from his sons as he looked at the engineer. "Such permission is not required Wheeljack. You are always welcome into our home," the border collie said. There was only a touch of confusion about him as he said that statement, but the bulldog merely beamed, returning his focus back on the twins.

"Guess that means I'm staying for dinner."

"Yay!," Jetfire and Jetstorm shouted, leaping to their pedes. The younglings raced off down the hall, fighting to get into the bathroom first. Perceptor and Wheeljack headed for the kitchen in the meantime. It was small area, about only big enough for three mechs of Wheeljack's size, but it suited the scientist just fine. The bulldog let his gaze fall around the kitchen, reminiscing about days past spent in this place. Since coming to the city, this apartment had been Perceptor's home -and for a while, Wheeljack's as well. With only a few credits saved up at the time, it was all that they could afford, but eventually this tiny place grew on Perceptor and he was reluctant to leave it even after he became Iacon's leading scientist. Now it wasn't just the border collie's home, but the twins' as well.

"Wheeljack, assistance needed."

At the request, the bulldog turned about, nearly swallowing his glossa in shock. Perceptor had removed his lab coat and was currently attempting to put on an apron. His servos were having difficulty looping the straps together behind his back; a queer expression of apathetic annoyance growing on his faceplates as he continued having difficulty tying the apron. Pink frills from the shoulder straps brushed the border collie's cheekplates as he tried twisting his helm to see what he was doing. Wheeljack coughed uncomfortably, shifting his gaze to the side for a moment. When he had composed himself enough, the bulldog stepped forward, taking the straps from Perceptor's servos.

"Isn't this Jetstorm's apron?," the engineer asked, tying a simple bow.

"Affirmative," the other autodog replied. "Proper dress is required but there are no other alternatives from this. So, it bears its usefulness." Perceptor inclined his helm in gratitude, turning to the cupboard and pulling out pots and ingredients. Placing one pot on the stove, the scientist started the preparations for a bolt-and-nut stew. Wheeljack was content to watch the other mech go about his task, olfactory sensors twitching when Perceptor's brew began to emit delicious smells.

Jetstorm and Jetfire were soon to return to the kitchen; freshly washed and changed for the evening. "We too are the helping!," they chorused, winding around the older 'bots forms, nuzzling here and there as they moved towards the cupboards.

"Behave boys," Perceptor said, not tearing his attention away from his stew. "Select the good dishes, please."

"Good dishes?," Wheeljack commented, watching as the twins nodded their helms at the order, opening the cupboard and revealing the fancy glass dishes that Perceptor kept for special occasions. "Perceptor, you don't have to pull those out for me. I'm not that important."

"Ridiculous," the border collie replied. He turned off the stove as the food finished cooking; spooning scoops of it into a smaller, heat-resistant porcelain serving bowl. "You are a valued guest, Wheeljack. Your presence here is greatly significant -why should you be treated any less?"

The bulldog could not argue that point, and mutely followed the others out into the living room/dining area. He sat at the table that Jetfire and Jetstorm had set with care, grinning at the hybrids, reaching over and scratching both of their ears. They purred at the attention, happily digging into the meal that their creator set before them. Wheeljack made ready to dig into his own plate as well -it had been a while since he had last eaten a home-made meal by Perceptor.

Silence reigned for a time as they ate, before Perceptor -surprisingly- broke the quiet. "I am disappointed about today," he said, glancing at Jetfire and Jetstorm. The younglings flinched visibly at the flat words, bowing their helms shamefully. "Your actions dictate that you believe them to be inconsequential, and despite my requests you continue to disregard my rules. You take my concerns lightly, sneaking off and away from Wheeljack, knowing that he does his best to supervise you in my stead. He becomes responsible for you -your deeds only place him in a precarious situation. Do you not care about the consequences?"

"Perceptor...," Wheeljack tried to intervene. "Don't be so harsh on them, yeah? I mean, you already lectured them earlier for sneaking off."

"That still does not excuse their misconduct today," the border collie replied quickly. If there had been any tone in the scientist's vocalizer, it would have been almost like he was snapping at his fellow autodog. The twins flinched again at the words, their ears pressing flat against their helms in contrite.

"Sorries," they whispered together. "Not angry being us with anymore, please mommy. Pretty outside was this day; wanting just short time play for."

Perceptor glanced at each of his sons, and vaguely it seemed as if his shoulders slumped the tiniest bit in defeat. "Escort yourselves to your room when you have finished ingesting. Recharge will be in two joors."

Conflicted, the younglings pushed away from the table; kissing Perceptor on a cheekplate each. They finished their nightly routine by coming to the other side of the table and quickly giving Wheeljack a hug as well, waiting until he had kissed each of them atop of their helms, before they headed down the hall and to their room for the rest of the night. Wheeljack could only sigh as he watch the hybrids walk away, turning to see Perceptor already on his pedes and gathering the dinner dishes. "Perceptor...," the bulldog murmured, following the border collie into the kitchen. "Don't you think it's time you started letting them have some more freedom? I mean, they're getting to that age now..."

The larger autodog trailed off, feeling suddenly small under the sharp, blank look Perceptor cast him. He nearly swallowed an intake in relief when the scientist finally turned his gaze away and continued his route for the kitchen sink. "I mean, they've always been awful obedient before hand," Wheeljack tried to argue. "They never used to do things like this before -I'm sure Ratchet would agree that this is just Jetfire and Jetstorm attempting to branch out, and not burden you as much."

Perceptor merely ran the water, not paying the other autodog even a smidge of attention. "Argument invalid," the border collie finally responded. "They are younglings still -different, intelligent, susceptible. They will be ready for such things when they are more knowledgeable."

Wheeljack didn't know what else to say. In reality, Perceptor's view on this argument was corrupted. There was no way for the twins to learn about the real world if they were forever being kept away from it, but the autodog could not so easily brush aside the scientist's concerns as well. "...Don't I at least get a word in this?," the engineer asked, optics fixed on Perceptor's back struts pleadingly. "I know you're worried about them, Percy. I'm worried as well... I've seen the looks; heard the whispers. But don't you think the twins should at least have that choice?"

Perceptor did not reply.

Sighing, Wheeljack scratched at his helm. "I suppose I should get home," he said, turning on his pede slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow then. Goodnight Perceptor." He waited to see if the border collie would wish him farewell; knowing it was an old gauge-like method of seeing how angry his friend was with him. There had been a fair amount of nights when Perceptor had coldly kept silent.

"...Goodnight," came the quiet send-off finally. Smiling just a little, the bulldog turned about fully and exited from the scientist's apartment.

**xxXxXxx**

The morning after found Perceptor leading his sons to city hall before his shift, the three of them climbing the stone steps up to the center building before entering past the towering, platinum doors. Inside was quiet, with a level of professional muted noise. Marble columns lined each side of the entrance hallway, reflecting in the shined metal floor, leading off on either direction to other offices and meeting rooms. It just being a little after ten in the morning, the entire area was clear of people, with the exception of two 'bots -one sitting behind the security desk, and the other standing before it.

"Good morning, boys," the german shepherd standing greeted. He kept his datapads folded securely in his arms, even as he spared the trio a welcoming smile. "How are you today?"

"They're probably the same as ever, Optimus," the mech behind the desk gruffed. "Why the slag do you feel the need to constantly ask?"

"Common courtesy is something you never seemed to have learned, Sentinel," Optimus replied, not skipping a beat to the chagrin of the security guard. "Now if you don't mind, I wasn't talking to you." He smiled wider as Perceptor and the twins approached. "I hope your trip was good."

"Fair," Perceptor answered. "Wheeljack will be collecting them today, after his shift. Necessary fuel is stored in here." The scientist paused momentarily to hand the taller autodog Jetfire and Jetstorm's bagged lunch. "I request that you take care while supervising my sons."

"Don't worry," Optimus said, patting each hybrid on the helm as they stepped over to his side. "I always do Perceptor."

The border collie inclined his helm in acknowledgement. To his sons, he said, "Be on your best behaviour boys. I must leave now; my presence is required elsewhere. Have a good day." Done, the scientist turned on his pede and started heading out the doors.

Behind him, still standing on either side of Optimus, Jetfire and Jetstorm waved their servos in farewell. "Bye, bye mommy!," they called. "Seeing you home at later. Love you!"

"Callous as usual, isn't he?," Sentinel snipped, getting to his pedes. "Didn't even bother to say goodbye." Three sets of optics glared at the security guard. "What?," the rottweiler asked, scowling at the other 'bots.

"Just ignore him Jetfire, Jetstorm. He's not worth getting angry over," Optimus advised, placing a servo on each of the younglings' back struts. "C'mon, let's go begin your lessons."

"As if a silly secretary would know anything...," Sentinel sniffed. The german shepherd pursed his lips in irritation, steering the twins down one of the hallways. Jetfire and Jetstorm glanced at their tutor, and then to the security 'bot, confused by the strange banter the older mechs were partaking in.

"Uncle Sentinel very odd is," the orange hybrid noted.

"Much very," Jetstorm agreed. "Looking not ward of the for to lesson with him. Skipping then we are?"

"Jetstorm," Optimus sighed behind the twins. They looked at him innocently, and the autodog could only arch an optic ridge in return. "Yes, I'm aware that you two frequently sneak off. It's not my place to say anything really, but it would be better if you adhered to your creator's words and not run off during Sentinel's lessons. It gets annoying listening to him complain..."

Jetfire and Jetstorm giggled at that.

"Laugh all you want, boys," Optimus said, trying to hide the grin growing on his own faceplates. "But I'll be escorting you to Sentinel myself after lunch." That drew a whine out of the two younglings, which only made the secretary grin a little more.

Turning around a bend in the hallway, the group found themselves in a different area of the building. This place had dark mahogany walls and pale limestone flooring. A burgundy carpet ran from one length of the hall to the other; going straight down the middle. There were a few doors on either side of the hallway, but the one that drew their attention the most was the floor to ceiling, opaque, bullet-proof glass door at the end of the hall. In golden script, there was a label on the glass, proclaiming that it was the office of the Attorney General. A large desk stood just before the door, and it was there that they were heading for.

Circling behind his desk, Optimus reclaimed his seat, gesturing for the twins to take their own seats. Jetfire and Jetstorm did so, sitting in the small rectangle area that had been sanctioned off from the rest of the desk since the first cycle they had begun their lessons. Resting their satchels on the free desk space, the hybrids pulled identical datapads out of their bags; turning to the german shepherd and waiting further instruction. "You've done your homework, I hope," the older mech started, holding his servos out to retrieve the datapads. The younglings' gave them to him without so much as a word, nodding their helms in answer to the statement. Optimus was quiet for a moment, as he turned the screens on, quickly reading through the contents.

"Great job!," he congratulated once he was done his inspection. The secretary gave the datapads back to the twins. "You continue to excel in your studies. I fear soon I may have nothing more to teach you -nothing left to challenge you with."

For a moment, this news made Jetfire and Jetstorm beam. Then, their smiles fell a little and they looked to each other, before dropping their gaze to the floor. "Suppose you, Uncle Optimus, mommy may letting us be going to Academy then?"

Truthfully, Optimus didn't know what to say. When he had first started this job, he had been approached by his superior, asking if he would feel capable enough to handle tutoring two, fresh sparklings. He, of course, had not imagined he could possibly manage such a task; but unable to disappoint his new employer, who held such hope for him, the german shepherd had taken the job. It had been a real delight at first, babysitting the twins and teaching them basic schooling. The autodog had thought it to be a temporary thing, for a scientist who couldn't yet afford daycare for his sparklings. That had proven not to be the case, as Optimus continued to tutor Jetfire and Jetstorm, even after they were old enough to attend elementary school. They were well along in their youngling years now, finished almost all the highschool courses that the secretary was privy to teach, never having put even the tip of their pede in an actual school. No doubt this glaring act of segregation was affecting the hybrids some. But would Perceptor have grown trusting enough to let his sons go off to the Academy to finish their schooling; pursuing whichever career they chose? It, unfortunately, did not seem so likely...

"I don't see why not," the autodog answered eventually. He smiled –no point giving up hope for something uncertain to begin with. "Perceptor believes strongly in your intellect, I don't see why he wouldn't let you go on to the Academy afterwards."

Jetfire and Jetstorm looked up hopefully. Behind them, their little border collie tails wagged enthusiastically. Problem diverted, for the time being, Optimus turned his attention to his terminal for a moment, booting it up. "Let's begin shall we?," the german shepherd said, opening up his lesson plans. "We'll continue with History first, and then move on to Cybertronian Law. Set up a new file on your datapads, please."

The two younglings immediately followed the order, eager for their lesson today.

**xxXxXxx**

"And this here, is where the engineers tinker away trying to bring to life all of our wonderful scientists' theories."

Wheeljack looked up from his work, optics turning to the doorway as Cosmos -surprisingly- walked in, escorting another wide-set mech who was easily taller than the astronomer. Noticing that the large mastiff was a new face in the department, the engineer got to his pedes, wiping his oily hands off on a free rag.

"Cosmos," the bulldog grinned. "It's not often that you're seen out of your office. How are things?"

"Bulkhead," the great pyrenees said to his companion. "This is Wheeljack; Iacon's most valued engineer. Bulkhead is a new recruit, Wheeljack. I've been showing him around, since Mainframe is a little preoccupied in the archives. He will be joining the others on level three, working on Cybertron's ever-prosperous space bridge technology. The young pup is credited to being the greatest technician as of to date."

"A fellow techie, huh?," Wheeljack said, turning his attention to the larger autodog. He held out a servo for the other mech to shake. "We may expertise in different fields, but I can assure you any mechanic here is a friend of mine. How you feeling about joining us?"

Bulkhead gripped Wheeljack's servo immediately, shaking it enthusiastically with enough force to unbalance the bulldog. "Oh, great sir! Fantastic! Can I say it's just an honor to meet you!," the mastiff gushed. "I mean, you're Wheeljack! _The_ Wheeljack. Your exploits have been noted through all of Cybertron -the only engineer to have made the amazing designs and theories of the great scientist Perceptor an actual reality. Y-you're... you're like Primus to the sciences!"

Wheeljack laughed a little at the exuberant praise, freeing his servo from Bulkhead's crushing grip and patting the younger autodog on the shoulder plating. "Now, now... If anyone's a god to science, that would definitely have to be all Perceptor. Any 'bot up for a challenge could easily build the machines from his notes."

"You belittle yourself, Wheeljack," Cosmos said, smiling a smidge at the engineer's humility. "I don't see any other engineers scrambling to create Perceptor's machines. Certainly not ones so eager that their projects usually end up exploding in their faces before they're functional."

"Perhaps so...," the bulldog laughed some more. "Speaking of which," Wheeljack suddenly recalled, "You're heading back to Mainframe's office after the tour, right Cosmos? Would you mind telling him that I'll be out of here shortly –need to pick up Jetfire and Jetstorm in a couple joors. Perceptor's got a whole new project lined up, and it looks as if he'll be staying for a while yet tonight."

"Oh, are those your sparklings Wheeljack?," Bulkhead piped up. "I didn't know you and Perceptor were bonded."

Wheeljack seemed to startle at the words, cheery grin falling a bit. Confused, the green mech looked between his elders. "What? What did I say?"

Cosmos went to reply, when Wheeljack beat him to it. "It's... It's alright, Cosmos. I'll answer," the engineer sighed. Turning to Bulkhead, he pushed a smile to his cheekplates, saying, "Perceptor and I are just friends, kiddo... And no, the younglings aren't mine."

"Oh...," the mastiff mumbled uncomfortably.

An awkward silence fell after that, lasting for only a few kliks before the half-assembled contraption on Wheeljack's table began to smoke and hiss, drawing the group's attention. The engineer raced across the room, hoping to save his malfunctioning project –but he got there too late, the piece of machinery imploding in his face. Coughing, the bulldog waved away the oddly, blue cloud of smoke that had arisen during the explosion, grinning at his fellow co-workers standing by the doorway.

"It's alright," he assured them. "Just a minor flaw. I'll have this fixed in no time, trust me."

"Well, we'll be moving on then Wheeljack," Cosmos replied. The engineer could still hear as the astronomer turned in the doorway, saying to Bulkhead as he grabbed the other autodog's forearm, "And this is why we rarely bother Wheeljack in his lab for anything... or at least bring protective gear during our visits..."

Once they were out of hearing range, the bulldog hunkered down at the table; staring distantly at his melted machine as he thought back on what the mastiff had said.

**xxXxXxx**

True to his word, Optimus escorted them to Sentinel after lunch.

Sentinel was just rising from behind the main security desk, a slim dalmatian taking his place. "Watch those slaggers coming in," the rottweiler growled, gathering some datapads together. "They'll be coming in like bolts fresh off the assembly line -and none of them have any real reason to be here. Unless they've got appointments, kick their afts out the door."

"You really don't like loiters, SP," the other autodog grinned.

"Sentinel, you need to be nicer to the people who come in here -appointments or not," Optimus said, drawing up beside the desk. "City Hall is the center point of Iacon, and as such, the employees within should be setting a standard for the rest of the city. Being rude to enquiring 'bots is not an image we wish to foster."

Turning away from the scowl that the blue mech was giving him, the german shepherd smiled to the other security 'bot. "Hello Jazz. How was your morning?"

The dalmatian grinned, reclining easily in the chair. "Hey, OP," Jazz replied. "Things have been pretty swell. Nice to get a little down time in the front of the building after stalking 'bout the back hallways. The boys been behavin' themselves this morning?"

The autodog leaned forward in his seat, resting his chin on his servos as he peered at the twins. Jetfire and Jetstorm both looked around Optimus, grinning at the older mech as they wriggled their fingers in a wave. "Jetfire and Jetstorm are always well-behaved," the secretary answered, smiling down at the hybrids. "They've learned from the best after all."

Sentinel snorted at that, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Yeah, right," the larger security guard gruffed. "C'mon sparklings -let's get some practice done before the end of my break."

Not waiting to hear their protests or see if they would actually follow him, the rottweiler started off down the left hallway. The twins glanced down the opposite hall, but after catching Optimus' frown, they sighed and obligingly followed after the other autodog. Sentinel lead them all the way down the hall and halfway around the building; diverting off the main path and down a flight of stairs to City Hall's lower level. They continued down this concrete hallway a little while longer, before turning into a large room. This one was split into two sections: the first half of the room was set wall-to-wall with monitors, a desk placed before the monitors with one swivel chair and a mass of communication devices arranged on its surface. The other half of the room had been formatted into a sort of training room -the floors covered in cushioned matting, caged lockers holding various weapons and exercise equipment along the walls; and one massive, aging punching bag dangling from the ceiling near the right-hand corner of the room.

It was here that was their final destination.

"Stretch and get ready," Sentinel ordered, starting to unbutton his own shirt. He draped his gun hostler and white, uniform shirt over the back of the desk chair; rolling his shoulder joints to work the stiffness out of them. Jetfire and Jetstorm removed their own tops as well, remaining in their black tights and baby blue undershirts. Waiting for the rottweiler to join them, the younglings rolled about on the floor mats, sitting up and stretching out their joints and back struts. Sentinel cleared his vocalizer when he was ready, drawing the twins attention. Quickly they hopped to their pedes as the security guard approached them, falling into a standard defensive position.

There was no need for Sentinel to instruct Jetfire and Jetstorm about what they were doing today –this had been a long and regular routine that the hybrids had partaken in with the older mech. From the time they were just sparklings, their lessons with Optimus would end and Sentinel would then take them for some self-defense training. They had been following this retinue for so many years that there was nothing for the rottweiler to teach them anymore, and so, their classes with Sentinel became nothing more than mere practice. A very boring lesson to the twins, and an aggravating one to the blue autodog. Sentinel took a deep intake, charging across the room at Jetfire and Jetstorm. The younglings jumped back from the assault, using back-flips to put more distance between themselves and the large mech. Stopping mid-way through his lunge, Sentinel twisted about with more agility than would of been thought for someone of his size, pede slicing through the air for Jetstorm's helm. The hybrid, having just come out of his back-flip, bent backwards at the roundhouse kick; his elder's pede cutting the air just above his olfactory sensor.

Jetfire, seeing his brother in trouble, rushed from his corner of the room, fists locked on the lower plating of Sentinel's back struts. Catching sight of the assault, Sentinel quickly lashed out, blocking the orange youngling's servo. Snaking his servo about Jetfire's wrist, the rottweiler quickly settled his weight evenly again, using most of the hybrid's momentum against him and lifting the smaller mech into the air. He tossed the youngling toward his charging brother, who wisely dodged Jetfire's falling form, spinning up underneath Sentinel's guard and confronting the security guard. Sentinel attempted to grab hold of Jetstorm, but the blue twin's servos snapped forward, pinching at sensitive wires in between the autodog's plating, halting Sentinel's motion. Jetfire, having gotten to his pedes, quickly dashed up behind Jetstorm. At the last moment, the youngling holding him prisoner ducked out of the way, making room for Jetfire's leaping kick. Sentinel could only feel his optics flare in surprise before the whole world was shifting on him, sensors in his chin blazing with pain as the pede connected with his jaw.

Sentinel found himself flat on his back plating the next moment he unshuttered his optics. He blinked for a few astroseconds, still disorientated from the assault, before he attempted to sit himself up. That proved futile because Jetfire and Jetstorm had taken the opportunity to fold the rottweiler into a grappling hold -the blue hybrid keeping his lower limbs immobile in a leg-lock, while his brother had Sentinel's right arm trapped in an arm-lock. They were barely even condensing...

Brats.

"You can release me anytime now," the rottweiler growled, trying to wiggle some in the twins' hold and hopefully escape. It wasn't working and only strained his muscle cables.

"But prisoner Uncle Sentinel is ours being," Jetfire grinned cheekily.

"What giving us release for want?," Jetstorm chimed in. He may not have been able to see the other youngling that well from this angle, but Sentinel could just tell he was grinning just like his brother.

"I'll give you nothing!," Sentinel barked. "You'll let me go this very nanoklik or suffer the consequences!"

"Ah, brother," Jetfire sighed, clicking his glossa disapprovingly at the security guard. "Uncle Sentinel operating of the co-op not. Drastic of the measures we making must then."

"Okie for dokie then, brother," Jetstorm chirruped by Sentinel's knee joints.

"Drastic measures!," the rottweiler choked, incensed and suddenly very unnerved. "What the frag are yo-" The autodog was cut off as the orange youngling's fingers flashed to his neck cables, slithering in between them and pressing against a little bolt tucked in along the bigger mech's chassis. Sentinel felt all his system's freeze up, losing all control of his limbs.

"What the slag!," he shouted, grimacing as he was met with pain when he attempted to move his fingers. His fingers, of all things! The hybrids released their grip on the autodog, bouncing onto the security guard's chassis, grinning still.

"Okay be," Jetstorm assured, fingers splaying against Sentinel's chassis, plucking at the seams and sliding in between the grill. The rottweiler clenched his denta tightly, trying to keep back the moan that threatened to rise at the light stroking. "Last just for breem only. Moving of the shortly being soon."

"Time is for us enough to going be," Jetfire beamed, nuzzling the bottom of the autodog's chin. Together, the twins stretched upwards, sliding their frames sensually along Sentinel's chassis before kissing the security guard on both cheekplates.

"G'off," Sentinel growled lowly. The younglings giggled at his warning, pulling back and sitting up. Their optics glimmered mischievously and their border collie tails wagged in evident amusement. Sentinel dared not open his mouth again, too much aware of the slow-burning that was starting to spread underneath his codpiece. This is why he hated teaching the twins. They were too wild, smart and alluring for their own good. Instead, the rottweiler glared at the hybrids, hoping to Primus that they wouldn't continue with their flirtatious behaviour. It seemed, at least this time, favour was on his side.

"Bye-bye, Uncle Sentinel," Jetfire and Jetstorm said, hopping onto their pedes. "See of you later!," they called as they ran for their shirts, slipping their tops back on before rushing out of the security office door.

Immobilized still, Sentinel could only release a frustrated intake, stuck on the floor until Jetfire's paralyzing technique passed.

...At least he had the rest of his lunch break all to himself now.

**xxXxXxx**

Skipping out on the rest of Sentinel's "lesson", Jetfire and Jetstorm decided to spend the next cycle over at the nearby mall. Passing by the hospital on their way back to City Hall, the twins slowed to a stop, optics focused on the beige building. "Brother... s-should... going inside be trying should we?," Jetstorm asked, glancing at his twin.

Jetfire drooped his ears slightly, catching some of the angry stares being thrown their way. He wanted to go inside the hospital and see if Ratchet was there, but it was such a big place to go looking for the vet; the orange youngling wasn't quite sure if they'd be able to find a 'bot willing to help them out either. Glancing at Jetstorm's watch, Jetfire let out a sigh, shaking his helm. "Not time this," the hybrid answered his brother. "Late being for Uncle Jazz's lesson. Not wanting us do that to."

"Okie...," the blue mech mumbled, letting the other 'bot grasp his servo and lead them away from the hospital. For an astrosecond, Jetstorm stared back at the medical building before turning his attention back around front. "Brother, us more see of Dr. Ratchet being, yes?"

"Trying will do," Jetfire replied. "Just making plan of seeing do we."

"How?"

That made the orange mech blink a little in surprise. "Just do. We storming processors later."

Jetstorm nodded his helm at his brother's words; cheering up a little. When him and Jetfire hunkered down and worked together, there was nothing that they couldn't do. Planning, especially, was something that the twins excelled at. What one youngling might miss, the other would surely catch and point out. There had rarely ever been a strategy that had failed the hybrids before. This too then would work out. And hopefully they'd get to see more of the vet Ratchet. Thinking about the old autodog brought a smile to Jetstorm's lip components; purring gently in his vocalizer. Another purr joined in with his, Jetfire tapping into his twin's thoughts and sharing with Jetstorm his own feelings. Content, the younglings skipped up City Hall's front steps.

"See! See what I mean. Why do they always run away from my lessons?!"

Jetfire and Jetstorm skipped to a stop just inside of the doorway, cocking their helms to the side as they looked ahead to the grown-up mechs. Optimus was standing before the security desk again, the last of his lunch still in his servos. Seated behind the counter was Jazz still, the dalmatian resting his chin in one servo as he looked up at his superior amusingly. Sentinel himself was standing with his shoulder plates hunched, finger pointed to the doorway and the twins as he glared almost distressingly at Optimus.

"I do not have an answer for that, Sentinel," the german shepherd replied. You could almost detect the humour in his vocalizer, equally matched by the frustration he was trying hard to suppress. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do. As do you, if I recall."

Optimus turned on his pede, smiling slightly at the twins before shaking his helm. "Have a good day, Jetfire, Jetstorm," the secretary dismissed, before continuing on his path and back to his own desk on the other side of the building.

Sentinel huffed angrily at Optimus' brush off, snapping his denta at the dalmatian that was circling out from behind the security desk. "One of these days, I swear...," the rottweiler grumbled, reclaiming his seat, a scowl fixed on his faceplates.

"Ah, don't worry about SP, boys," Jazz grinned, approaching the younglings. "Mech's just frustrated he doesn't get any lovin' from our dear ol' Optimus."

"Stop with your slag, will ya!," Sentinel yelled from the desk. "I don't want anything from that stupid mutt."

Jazz merely shook his helm, the chuckles almost slipping out past his quirked lip components. "Anyways, let's spin, yeah?," he said to Jetfire and Jetstorm. "We've only got the cycle left now, so let's go get started. Today, I'm gonna teach ya how to make my mama's special gumbo. It'll leave your glossas thirsting for more, promises!"

"Go, go, go!," Jetstorm chirped, grasping the security guard's arm. His tail wagged eagerly. "Learn new dish I wanting to be very much."

"Hurry if, we getting chance to eat?," Jetfire asked Jazz, following on the autodog's other side. He was just as eager to learn something new, but not as much as his brother. Jetstorm loved cooking; for the orange mech though, it wasn't much of his thing.

"Definitely!," Jazz answered. "My mama's dish is easy, fast and tasteful! She's had vorns to perfect it after all."

The mention of a meal perked Jetfire up, and he was soon dragging Jazz to the staff kitchen along with Jetstorm, so they could get started on today's lesson.

**xxXxXxx**

Wheeljack entered the kitchen a joor later, olfactory sensors twitching as he caught the scent of Jazz's gumbo. "Mmmm... something smells good in here." the engineer remarked, rounding the corner and catching sight of the dalmatian. Jazz stood by the sink, large pot in his servos that he was currently scrubbing out.

"Thanks man," the security guard grinned, looking to the bulldog. Jazz inclined his head to the island, where a container of gumbo sat. "Today's recipe was my mama's famous gumbo. Gotta say, those lil' pups know their way 'bout a kitchen. I think they may have just improved mama's recipe."

Wheeljack grinned, stepping forward and picking up the container. "That you can take home," Jazz added. "I know they wanted for you and Perceptor to try some. Trust me when I say it's gonna dazzle your glossa."

"I believe it," the engineer said, laughing a little. "Where are the boys?"

The dalmatian turned his helm back to his pot, scrubbing at a particularly tough stain. "Well, after gorging themselves on some of the gumbo earlier, they curled themselves up on the couch there to grab a little recharge."

Wheeljack craned his neck cables a little, catching sight of a couch at the other end of the kitchen. Quietly he walked forward, container still in his servos, past the patch of round lunch tables and chairs, to the couch just beyond. Sure enough, as Jazz had said, Jetfire and Jetstorm were passed out on the little sofa; wrapped around each other snugly. Smiling and feeling slightly ashamed that he would have to disturb the twins' rest, the bulldog reached out a servo and gently scratched behind each of the youngling's ears. "Hey...," he murmured softy. "Wakey, wakey now."

Jetstorm woke up first, visor flaring as light came back to it. The blue hybrid stretched as best as he could underneath his brother, mouth opening with a little yawn. At Jetstorm's rustling, Jetfire too woke up, nuzzling his brother's chassis for an astrosecond before finally lifting his own helm. "Uncle Wheeljack," they both grinned sleepily. "Hello."

"Hello boys," Wheeljack smiled, bending down and kissing both of the younglings' helms. "Had yourselves a good day, I'm guessing." Jetfire and Jetstorm nuzzled against the bulldog's shoulder plating, hugging the mech, before getting to their pedes.

"Good very!," they chirruped, completely online now. Jetstorm noticed the container in the engineer's hands and he pointed to it excitedly.

"Me and brother making of the gumbo!," he beamed. "Uncle Wheeljack some eating?"

"Not yet," Wheeljack answered. "I'll have some when we get back home. You ready to go?"

"Yes!," two voices answered him. The larger mech led the younglings back around the tables, passing into the main part of the kitchen.

"Bye, Jazz," the bulldog said, waving to the dalmatian who was just finishing up the rest of the washing. "Thank you for watching the twins again."

"No prob," Jazz grinned. "Jetfire and Jetstorm are cool to hang with. See ya later, boys."

"Bye, byes Uncle Jazz!," the hybrids beamed, waving to the security guard as they headed out the door. Happy, Jetfire and Jetstorm linked arms with Wheeljack, resting their helms on the autodog's arms. "We here liking lots. Every 'bot nice very," Jetfire and Jetstorm mused. "Even Uncle Sentinel. He funny being."

Wheeljack chuckled a little, looking down on the twins. "I'm glad to hear that you're at least having fun. Things are better when you're having a good time."

The younglings hummed their agreement to the engineer's words, nuzzling the fabric of his plaid jacket for a moment. Eventually, Jetfire spoke up again. "Mommy coming what time home?"

"Well...," the bulldog sighed. "Perceptor's going to be a little while at the lab tonight. He has a new assignment that he just received, and he wants to get a head-start on things. But he should be home soon after that."

He wasn't that surprised when Jetfire and Jetstorm's optics dulled a bit in disappointment.

Just another day in the life of the Apathetic scientist's sons.

"Okie for dokie still," Jetstorm said, cheering up. "Up the cleaning for mommy, and has gumbo too there for dinner, that way mommy being happy when home coming."

Wheeljack couldn't help but to smile at that. Many times, it seemed that Jetfire and Jetstorm were missing things in their life, having an emotionless creator who at times would not be around. But despite everything, they had still grown up to be beautiful, caring, and intelligent mechs; unhindered by such things like neediness and anger. They understood things about Perceptor that other mechs would have a hard time seeing, let alone comprehending, and this allowed them to be the best support to their semi-detached mom.

Perceptor, in turn, probably would lose all of his will if he did not have his sons.

It was a strange relationship, and sometimes, probably not all that healthy. But the twins were still growing; and Perceptor, still healing. At the end of the day though, all that mattered was that they were happy, and Jetfire and Jetstorm did their very best to share that joy with Perceptor. They would not be content otherwise unless they were all happy together.

"I'm sure Perceptor will love your gumbo," Wheeljack spoke up, drawing the twins' attention. "Jazz tells me it's the best he's ever had."

Jetfire and Jetstorm broke out into identical grins, chirruping in delight as they pressed their faceplates into the bulldog's arms.


	3. Chapter 3

Today was a long day.

Ratchet sighed quietly, swirling the last dregs of hot oil in his mug. He thought to drink it, but it had gone cold long ago and was beginning to thicken grossly. Still, he would need something in his systems to keep him going for the next few cycles...

A servo took hold of the cup just as the labrador was lifting it to his mouth; the smiling face of one short australian shepherd meeting his own. "Here, sir," the mech beamed, swapping the vet's cup of sour oil for a steaming, fresh one.

"Thanks First Aid," Ratchet replied, quickly drinking from the new cup. He didn't mind that the heat scalded his glossa a little; it was all worth it in the end when he felt his circuits jolt a little with the sparked beverage, a brighter light coming to his optics. "How many patients do we have left...?"

The smaller autodog continued to smile still, merrily flipping through the stack of medical datapads in his arms. "Well, not many now, sir. You have a simple check-up for the Pugs' newest bornling, followed by an appointment with old Mrs. Skyskipper who keeps complaining about this rash she's gotten all along her va-"

"Alright, I get it," the vet interrupted. "I don't need to hear anymore, thanks, First Aid."

The australian shepherd merely wagged his tail happily. "No problem, sir!," the assistant beamed.

"So, that's it then? Just those two and I'm free to flee from this slagging Pit of a place?"

"Uh, well, not quite, sir...," First Aid cut in. Ratchet tried not to groan.

"What is it now?," he asked, hoping it was some pointless, mundane thing that the other autodog had a habit of pestering him with and not another patient. He was getting really tired of all his appointments today.

"You have one more appointment to see, sir," the australian shepherd explained, cruelly dashing Ratchet's hopes. "A follow-up appointment for the two hybrids."

"Come again?," Ratchet said, turning to face the other mech fully this time.

First Aid blinked up at the labrador, oblivious to the cloud of darkness slowly beginning to curl about the vet's helm. "You know... those two mixed younglings? You did a full frame check-up on them just last week. I remember because I was the one that helped you write up the file. I think their creator is Perceptor... But, yeah! Follow-ups are standard, are they not, sir?"

"They are...," the vet grudgingly agreed. "But I sure as slag know that they weren't scheduled in for a follow-up of any sort!" If that was the case, Perceptor would have come straight to him personally, and demanded that Ratchet take time out of his day to look at the twins then and there. Since that hadn't occurred, it was illogical that the labrador would suddenly have an appointment for the two younglings.

"Oh...," First Aid replied, cheekplates flushing nervously. "But I already told them to wait for you in your office..."

"You WHAT?!," Ratchet yelled, dropping his cup of oil in shock.

The australian shepherd flinched at the cry, quickly lifting his servoful of datapads before his face like a shield. "S-sorry, sir," the mech stuttered. "I-i-i-i th-thought it was a-alright, I wa-wasn't aware..."

Ratchet sighed loudly, waving his servo in the air. "Don't worry about it First Aid. This sort of stuff happens to me a good amount of time. Unfortunately," the vet grumbled. "You're not to blame; you were just doing your job after all."

"O-okay, sir," First Aid replied softly, slowly lowering the datapads. He was almost afraid that the labrador would change his mind and suddenly smack him upside the helm with his stethoscope, as he was rumoured to do with other vets and patients alike. "S-shall I g-go then...?"

"Yeah, go ahead," Ratchet replied. "Go do your reports or something. Oh, and First Aid?"

The smaller autodog cringed as he was trying to slink away; fearfully looking back over his shoulder plating to his superior. "Y-yes, s-sir?"

"...Would you mind bringing me another cup of oil...? I kinda...," the vet trailed off, gesturing to the floor bashfully, to where the dark beverage had fallen and made a mess. Seeing that he wasn't going to be punished suddenly, First Aid perked right up again, beaming at the older mech.

"Oh, yes, of course sir! Right away, sir!" Then he scurried off cheerfully, his tail wagging all the way.

Baffled by his subordinate's rapidly shifting moods, Ratchet turned on his pede and started down a separate hallway, heading for his office.

**xxXxXxx**

"Part of plan being this, yes brother?," Jetstorm asked, turning to his twin.

Jetfire spun a little in Ratchet's chair, before coming to a stop and facing his brother. The other youngling sat nervously on the edge of the vet's desk, far enough off the surface so that he wouldn't accidentally disturb any of the pens or datapads covering it. Jetfire could feel Jetstorm's anxiousness over the bond and silently soothed his twin. "Yes, brother," the orange hybrid answered. "Part of plan being. Knowing Ratchet first must are we, so... if doing so, must to him go if him come to of the us not. Yes?"

"Yes, brother," Jetstorm replied. "Sense making, but..."

"Scaredy being of, is but," his brother supplied, shaking his helm in understanding. "Knowing are I. Still, brave are we doing." Jetfire reached across the desk and took one of Jetstorm's servos, giving it a comforting squeeze as he smiled up at his twin. He was happy when the blue youngling began to finally relax some. Taking the initiative himself, the orange hybrid rose to his pedes, leaning in closer to Jetstorm; who leaned in to his brother as well. Their lip components were barely brushing when suddenly the door was opened, Ratchet striding right into the room.

"S-sir!," the blue hybrid squeaked, jumping to his pedes and away from his brother quickly. His cheekplates burned immediately at the strange sound that had slipped from his vocalizer, turning his helm to the floor to avoid meeting the vet's optics.

Ratchet quirked an optic ridge at the curious action, before dutifully ignoring it and glaring at the orange youngling still standing behind his desk. "And just what do you think you're doing?"

Jetfire grinned sheepishly, moving from behind the desk and standing next to his twin. Jetstorm immediately clasped his servo, holding it tightly within his own. The next few kliks were silent. The two hybrids weren't speaking and Ratchet was attempting to think of ways to approach this situation without blowing up in the younglings' faces.

"You're here...," he eventually started, enunciating his words slowly. "Without Perceptor..."

"Yes sir," the twins answered in unison. Jetstorm was still looking at the floor, and Jetfire had his gaze fixed firmly with the labrador's.

Ratchet exhaled heavily, lifting a servo and pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor testily. "Why are you here, and without your creator? Am I to assume that you indeed enjoy sneaking off and causing no end of trouble for him? Or is Perceptor merely waiting somewhere out in the hallway, set on ambushing me after I haul your afts out of my office?"

"We come for upping of the check only," Jetfire replied. "We-"

"You don't need a follow-up, believe me," the vet growled. "I already administered all shots and the like, and I know for a fact that Perceptor is more than comfortable with tracking your progress afterwards, though he really should be leaving that sort of work to the professionals. Unless of course you're here for another reason altogether... something to do with interfacing, perhaps?"

"Wh- No!," Jetstorm choked, snapping his helm up. "No, no, no, no, no, no!," the youngling exclaimed, waving his servos before him fearfully.

"Relax, pup," Ratchet said, folding his arms before his chassis. "I was only saying. But if you really don't have an emergency, and considering you don't have an appointment, I have no choice but to ask you to leave. I'm heading out for some lunch before I have to come back here and finish all this slagging work."

This was it! The opportunity they were looking for! Faster than one could blink, Jetfire and Jetstorm were standing just before the labrador, servos clasped imploringly as they looked up at the taller mech. Ratchet, unnerved by their closeness, leaned back to distance himself from the hybrids, but they only followed his motion; pushing in closer.

"...you've grown...," the vet noted lowly. "You're both about chin level now."

The younglings ignored this distracting comment, pouting at the older autodog. "Ratchet, sir," they beseeched. "Taking of us you with? Often not we are going outside -mommy mind of not much being if you with are we. _Pleeeeeeeeease?_"

Their gazes were practically screaming their desperateness to escape outdoors once more, and even Ratchet could see part of the logic behind their begging. He was already aware of Perceptor's phobia to everything and everyone around him. But to take these two tricky younglings with him out for lunch? That was just asking for trouble, the vet knew... and for a slew of rumors to start up about him berthing two femmes at once. Didn't Jetfire and Jetstorm have some more mechly clothes?!

"Oh, please, Ratchet sir!," Jetstorm started pleading again, noticing the debate going on behind the labrador's optics. "Be of goodest behaviour we are, promising! Not make of the trouble, sir!"

"You're being troublesome now...," Ratchet mumbled under his intakes. The autodog sighed again, admitting defeat. If he simply turned the younglings away, he had no doubt in his processor that they would just sneak off somewhere else, further distressing their creator and Wheeljack in the process. If they were with him, then at least Perceptor wouldn't need to worry so much, though the border collie would probably be more than perplexed as to why his sons were with the vet in the first place.

"Let's go," Ratchet acquiesced, turning to the door. "But then you're going right back to your babysitter, understood?"

The two hybrids purred merrily, leaping forward and grabbing hold of the labrador's arms each. "Much being thanks!," Jetfire and Jetstorm chirped, nuzzling the vet's shoulders.

Well, that wasn't right. Ratchet squirmed against the affectionate attention, trying to pull away with little success. "Alright, quit it!," he eventually just snapped. "Doing things like that with somebot other than family is a sure way for people to get the wrong message."

The twins blinked up at the vet sadly, before withdrawing. "M-may us be holding sleeve, alright if?," Jetfire asked timidly.

Silence for a moment.

"...fine," Ratchet sighed. He really knew he shouldn't have been pampering them so, but he really just wanted to get out of there and go get some food already. If letting the two younglings hold onto his sleeves would keep them from clinging to him, then so be it. As it was, Jetfire and Jetstorm did perk up at this offer, and quickly grabbed a servoful of the vet's coat immediately.

"Now go, we are?," they asked together.

"Yes... _Now_ we can go," the labrador replied. He headed to the door, trailed by the two hybrids. "So... who'd you run away from?"

**xxXxXxx**

Jetstorm was happy. Really, really happy. His black border collie tail was wagging consistently, and even the energon sundae he was eating tasted a thousand times better. The sky was bluer, the sun brighter, and everything felt absolutely perfect in the world. And it was all because of the old labrador seated across from him.

Ratchet, the vet that their creator had taken to see the previous week for a check-up, had taken both of the hybrids out for lunch -after a little cajoling and sneaking about on their part. Still, it was worth it in the end to sneak away from Uncle Wheeljack, because they were now sitting on the patio of a cute little restaurant, in the company of their crush. Jetstorm tried his very best to keep his excitement contained. The older autodog didn't seem to take kindly to physical contact out in public, and the younglings were anything if not affectionate. They reveled in constant contact with their loved ones; it was just part of their programming. Yet, if they wanted to make any progress with the astute vet -and Jetstorm wanted to very much so- they would have to take things slowly.

Jetfire, sipping on an oil soda, shuttered his optics at the labrador. "Sir, eating not?," he asked, removing his lip components from the straw.

Ratchet seemed to startle at the question, frowning first at the orange hybrid before glaring down at his plate of iron linguine. It was mostly untouched and had started to get cold by now. "Not hungry is all," the vet grumbled in reply, turning his helm away from his food and the two younglings. Truthfully, he was starving... but it felt too awkward to be out and eating with Perceptor's rambunctious sons.

Already, other mechs and femmes were casting them strange looks. Not surprising, Jetstorm and Jetfire remained oblivious to the odd attention they were receiving.

"Maybe food liking not?," Jetstorm piped up. His visor gleamed eagerly, an excited blush coming to his cheekplates. "I make of meal good! Energon goodies specially! Ratchet, sir, like of trying some?"

Jetfire nodded his helm vigorously beside his twin. "Brother make food good. Better not one thing!"

Ratchet scowled somewhat, facing the younglings. "You're making it sound like we're gonna see each other again soon, pups," the vet remarked. He didn't miss the embarrassed ducking of both of the hybrids' helms. "Anyways, food is food. As long as I can eat, it doesn't really matter."

Jetfire pouted at the labrador's refusal, while Jetstorm merely lowered his helm further. His blue ears lay sunk on either side of his helm, tail limp behind his chair. Ah, slag... he had upset the mech. Ratchet sighed, refraining from pinching at his olfactory sensor again. "E-energon goodies... I probably wouldn't mind," the autodog started, "And I'm sure Wheeljack wouldn't mind delivering them to me either."

Jetstorm lifted his helm quickly, two little pearls of coolant still gripping at the edges of his visor. "R-real, sir? Okie for dokie is being?," he asked anxiously.

The labrador nodded his helm solemnly. As was expected, it made the younglings perk up again; tails wagging merrily behind each of them. Trying to put their pleased expressions out of his processor, Ratchet looked to his wrist watch. He had twenty kliks before his lunch break was over... and Jetfire and Jetstorm's babysitter hadn't come to retrieve them yet. When was the mech gonna get here?

"Hello, Ratchet sir. Twins," greeted a voice.

Speak of the Slag-maker.

Ratchet turned his helm to the newest individual, glaring at the flaming golden retriever. "Took you long enough."

"Brother Rodimus!," the younglings chirped. Quickly the two of them were out of their seats, circling around the table and hugging the other autodog tightly. Rodimus smiled down on the younger mechs, patting their helms and scratching behind their ears. Jetfire and Jetstorm purred at the attention.

"I see you pups have been running off again," Rodimus teased good-naturedly. "Sentinel never stops talking about it."

Jetfire and Jetstorm giggled a little, nuzzling the golden retriever's chassis further. "Not have class him with this day. Being of Uncle Wheeljack with... but wanting to trip go, are we. We be of careful still!"

"Is that so?," the other mech inquired. "I see that you at least managed to find yourself a supervisor of sorts. Though I wasn't aware that you knew Ratchet..."

"Perceptor had them come in for a check-up last week," Ratchet supplied, rising from the table as well. He gestured to a waiter passing by, handing the other autodog a handful of credits. "Keep the change," he said, before turning back to the other mechs.

"Ah, I see," Rodimus hummed in acknowledgement. "I suppose that Jetfire and Jetstorm have become attached to you then."

"Don't see why..."

The younger autodog chuckled lightly. "Don't worry about it too much. The twins have a habit of doing that with 'bots they like... even those that they meet only once." Ratchet made a noncommittal noise in the back of his vocalizer.

"Now," Rodimus started again, "We must be going. Our lesson is about to start, and I'm sure Wheeljack will be comforted to know that you are both with me at the designated time."

Jetfire and Jetstorm whined at this news.

"Boys- Propriety expects that we, what?," Rodimus scolded, looking at each of the younglings.

At the prompt, the hybrids turned to Ratchet and slightly inclined their helms to the vet. "Thanks of much, for the meal and granting of us company of yours," the twins said in unison. "Most appreciating action we are."

"...you teach them manners?," the labrador replied, looking from the younglings to the golden retriever in stunned disbelief.

"Yes," Rodimus replied coolly. "I did learn from the best, after all. Or did you expect Sentinel to teach them it?"

"Who?," was Ratchet's eloquent reply. The younger autodog rolled his optics, patting Jetstorm and Jetfire on the helm again.

"C'mon, time for us to go."

"Byes, Ratchet, sir!," Jetfire chirped, waving violently as he hurried after the retreating mech.

"See again soon you," Jetstorm smiled brightly, before he too was turning and skipping after his brother and babysitter. Ratchet watched them go, feeling dread slink into his fuel tanks heavily. There was no doubt in his processor that he would be seeing those two up-start younglings again.

**xxXxXxx**

"Yes, place your servo just right there. We clasp our free servos up here, and... one step, two step, three step. Rotate to the left, one small step to the right, and repeat." Rodimus spoke softly, chin lifted, as he and Jetstorm moved about the room. All the furniture had been pushed back so that there was a clear space where they might dance. Waltzing was some of the many things that Rodimus taught the twins; etiquette, polite speech and table manners also among that list of lessons. As it was, the younglings were exceptional learners and their natural demeanour made picking up the high-class mannerisms easier. Still, they were young, and youthfulness had a habit of making even the most learned of 'bots foolhardy and impulsive in their actions. These classes of propriety would continue until Rodimus was certain that Jetfire and Jetstorm had them wired into their processors.

Today, though, the hybrids were doing really well. "Good job," the autodog praised, "Your motion has improved greatly, Jetstorm. Your steps are quick and light, and you do not lead as if you were herding a floak of petro rabbits. Very good indeed."

"Thanking you of most flattery praise," the blue youngling replied, ducking his helm slightly with embarrassment.

"No, lift your chin," Rodimus smiled. "There's nothing for you to be ashamed of. You should show everyone that pretty smile. You're more than worthy of the compliment." The shorter mech lifted his helm at the order, gracing the autodog with his blushing cheekplates.

A vocalizer cleared at the lapse of silence, and the two dancing mechs came to a stop. Turning to the door, both Rodimus and Jetstorm were shocked to see Ultra Magnus there. "I apologize for my interruption. If I may though, could I steal a moment of your time, Rodimus?," the great dane asked.

"Oh, yes. Of course, sir," the golden retriever replied. He turned to the corner of the room where Jetfire was sitting, waiting for his turn to dance. "Jetfire, Jetstorm, if you'd please -continue on with each other while I go talk to Ultra Magnus for a klik." Rodimus waited until the orange hybrid had risen to his pedes, joining his brother on the make-shift dance floor, before the older mech was leaving the room.

Quietly, Jetfire let Jetstorm lead him in the steps; together slowly making their way about the room. "Happy are being you, brother?," Jetfire asked, smiling.

Even without Jetstorm's confirmation, he could feel the bubbly, fuzzy warmth seeping across their bond from his twin, surrounding his spark as well and cocooning it in that blanket of positive emotion. At the needless question, the blue youngling smiled back at his brother, purring quietly. "Very," he answered. "See of Ratchet, and go to have him eating energon goodies mine of. Happy very being."

Jetfire beamed brighter at his twin. "Saw, yes? Plan work, yes?"

Jetstorm chuckled. "Yes. Right being are you, brother." He leaned in closer to Jetfire, their lip components meeting in a spark-felt kiss. They languidly pulled apart a klik later, olfactory sensors still brushing as they were loathe to distance themselves entirely yet. "Thanking you brother," the blue twin whispered.

"Well of come," Jetfire whispered back.

"Pups," came Rodimus' voice. The younglings jolted at the call, turning to the doorway. The golden retriever leaned against the door frame, smiling wryly at the two hybrids. "You stopped dancing," he remarked, chuckling an astrosecond after as Jetfire and Jetstorm attempted to fall back into the music's rhythm.

"It's alright, you can stop now," the autodog laughed just as the younger mechs tripped over their pedes and crashed to the floor. "Wheeljack is here to pick you up."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Jetfire and Jetstorm were jumping off the floor and racing for the door. Rodimus wisely stepped out of their path, shaking his helm and smiling at the younglings' antics. "Uncle Wheeljack!"

The engineer, who had been standing just outside the door, turned at the call and quickly scooped the two hybrids up. He crushed them tight in a big bear hug, leaving their pedes to dangle in the air as he pressed them tight to his chestplates. "Uncle Wheeljack us crushing," Jetfire laughed a little within the firm grasp.

"Miss lots us, suppose?," Jetstorm added.

"Don't you two ever do that to me again!," the bulldog said, finally putting the twins back down again. He kept a heavy servo on each of their shoulders still, blue optics fixing them with a slightly frustrated stare. "I didn't know what happened to the both of ya, you were just suddenly gone when the smoke cleared. I thought for sure that I had finally blew the both of you up! I know Perceptor gets iffy about you boys joining me in my lab, but I always keep you safe enough... but that stupid machine backfired, and there was smoke everywhere... Primus, what would I do -what would Perceptor do!- if I lost you both?!"

The younglings lowered their helms contritely, kicking at the floor with the tips of their pedes. "...sorries," they whispered sadly, "Scaring not is what we to do mean."

Wheeljack sighed, pulling Jetfire and Jetstorm back into his arms. "It's alright... I know you didn't mean any harm by it. But please at least leave me a note, or call me next time you decided to sneak out while one of my projects begins to fritz."

The younger mechs purred in agreement, wrapping their arms around the bigger autodog and nuzzling under his chin. Wheeljack accepted the affectionate touch, placing a kiss atop each set of kitty ears. "C'mon... it's time to go home now," he announced, withdrawing his arms.

Jetfire and Jetstorm stepped back from the hug, taking up position on either side of the engineer; clasping one of his servos in their own. "Now tell me," the bulldog spoke up, as they started for home, "Just where in the world did you run off to in the first place? I mean, Rodimus called me to inform me that he was going to go pick you both up for your lesson... but he never said from where."

"Ratchet is with!," the orange youngling piped up before his brother could. "Him go see at hospital."

"Yes! Take for lunch us, is doing him," the blue hybrid intervened quickly. Jetstorm wanted to state his piece before his twin could. "Food liking not, so promises to making energon goodies I are."

"Y-you... you were with Ratchet?," Wheeljack replied, stunned.

The bulldog nearly stumbled when the twins suddenly pulled on his servos together; the both of them urging the older mech to hurry up. "H-hey!," Wheeljack raised his voice in surprise. "What's the hurry for?"

"Go home quick, must we!," Jetfire and Jetstorm chirped happily. "Making of treats Ratchet for!"

"I... uh... see..." Confused, the poor engineer just let himself be dragged back home by the two excited younglings.

**xxXxXxx**

Perceptor arrived home later that evening.

Shutting and locking the door behind him, the border collie was quick to note the silence of the apartment. With the exception of running water in the kitchen, there was no other noise to be had. Silently, the scientist made his way further into his home, turning into the kitchen. "Wheeljack..."

"Ah, Perceptor!," the bulldog grinned, turning away from the sink. "Just gimme a klik. I'm almost done washing these up."

"Action is not necessary," Perceptor replied, walking up to the engineer.

"Nonsense," Wheeljack retorted, waving a servo in the air. The motion tossed a few bubbles about the room. "The twins felt especially creative tonight and made up a whole new, fresh batch of energon goodies. They tuckered out shortly afterwards though... and I know they wouldn't want you to have to wash up their extra dishes from the baking." The bulldog finished scrubbing out the last bowl in the sink, giving it a rinse before placing it along with the others in the dishrack. Pulling out the drain, Wheeljack turned to face Perceptor.

"Come... you must be tired after everything." Wheeljack lightly grasped the border collie by the shoulders, steering him out of the kitchen and into the living room. Perceptor allowed himself to be led to the couch, taking a seat.

"Energon goodies? What motive prompted this decision?," the scientist asked, looking to the taller autodog.

Wheeljack stepped away for a moment, scratching at his ear. "Oh, well, that... Uh, the twins and I ran into Ratchet earlier today. Seems they like the vet now too. They wanted to make him some treats as a gift," the bulldog replied, heading back to the kitchen. It wasn't really a lie he was saying, but it would be better if Perceptor didn't know of every single moment that the younglings ran off.

"Speaking of which," Wheeljack continued. He returned to the room with a tray in his servos: a plate of copper ravioli, a glass of oil and a small plate of energon goodies placed on its surface. With this, he headed towards Perceptor once more. "Jetfire and Jetstorm were wondering if they might be allowed to go see Ratchet tomorrow at the hospital. I'd go with them of course, but they want to give Ratchet the energon goodies as soon as possible. Here, your dinner."

"Thank you, Wheeljack," the border collie responded as his friend placed the tray in his lap. The bulldog settled onto the couch beside the scientist, silently watching as Perceptor picked up his utensils.

"Tomorrow is... the weekend," the smaller autodog noted.

"Yeah it is. The twins won't have lessons tomorrow, and it'll be fun for them to go out for a trip. The weather has been really nice this past little while too," Wheeljack added. His little tail wagged anxiously behind him, hoping that Perceptor would grant him his request. He didn't want to have to tell the younglings 'no' come the morning...

Perceptor though remained silent as he ate his meal. After a klik, he set down his utensils and turned his helm to face the bulldog. "Very well. They may go," the scientist replied.

Wheeljack beamed. "And what about you Perceptor? Are you able to take a day off to come join us? I was thinking that we might go have a picnic as well."

The border collie shuttered his optics, turning back to his food. "No, I think not," he replied. "There is too much work to be done. Perhaps another day."

"Alright...," the engineer mumbled. He swallowed back the sigh that threatened to slip out, tucking away his disappointment. "You should eat one of the energon goodies," the bigger mech added. "Jetstorm put them aside just for you. I know he'll be just ecstatic if you were to eat some tonight."

At the prompt, Perceptor reached for one of the pink biscuits, bringing it up to his lip components and nibbling at it delicately. As usual, the treat was delicious -Jetstorm was truly talented when it came to baking. "They are wonderful," the border collie said, after he had finished eating one. He picked up another and held it out for the other autodog. "Would you care to have one as well, Wheeljack?"

"Don't mind if I do," Wheeljack answered, happily taking the energon goodie from the scientist's slim fingers. The engineer tossed the biscuit whole into his mouth, chewing on it contently. He sighed blissfully when he was done. "That was real good. Jetstorm's got a magic touch with those energon goodies. Haven't tasted anything better."

"Anyways," the bulldog went on, glancing at the clock on the wall. "I suppose I should probably get going. It's getting late and all..."

Perceptor lifted a servo and placed it on Wheeljack's forearm, just as the taller autodog was getting to his pedes. Startled by the touch, the engineer looked back to his friend. "Stay here for the night, Wheeljack," the scientist said. "It is late and dark. It would be dangerous to go out at this time of night."

"A-are you s-sure, Perceptor?," Wheeljack stuttered. "I-i-i don't w-want to be a b-burden or anything."

"I am certain," the border collie answered without hesitation. "We will simply open the pull-out couch. That is no trouble." Perceptor rose to his pedes, lifting the tray with him. "I shall go get spare blankets and pillows," he announced, before turning and leaving the room.

Wheeljack could only shutter his optics stupidly at the mech's exit, before he was grinning; humming happily to himself under his intakes as he set out on unfolding the pull-out bed.


	4. Chapter 4

Jetstorm set down the plates, turning them this way and that, before he decided he didn't like where they were placed period, moving them to another spot. Jetfire watched his brother's fussing and almost had to laugh. The sun was shining, the sky was blue; the weather was good and mild, and the scent of flowers surrounded them from the little meadows situated about the park. Everything was as perfect as a 'bot could wish for... not that the blue hybrid could see that. He was too busy riling himself up over Ratchet's arrival.

"Down of calming, brother," the orange youngling grinned, shifting closer to his twin. Jetstorm ignored him for an astrosecond before sighing and sitting back restlessly.

"B-but brother... Ratchet here coming. Worried being are I..."

"Why?," Jetfire asked, reaching up and stroking the other's flattened ears. "Plan working, yes? Ratchet seeing of more, and soon be may of wanting us. Then bond are us and all being happy, yes?"

Jetstorm merely shook his helm, pushing his feelings across the bond. His twin sighed at the silent messages, wrapping an arm about the blue youngling's waist and hugging him. "Okie being, brother," the orange hybrid assured, pressing his face into the other's neck cables. "Ratchet liking food will. Bestest cooker are you."

The other hybrid dipped his helm, about to say something, when another voice cut him off. "Hey boys," Wheeljack greeted, coming over the rise, "Sorry that we took so long." The bulldog was exceptionally grateful to find both of the younglings exactly where he had left them. He had been so anxious that they would have run off by now... and that was only part of the reason why he had been able to coerce his guest to come along so quickly.

"Just what are you -_Wheeljack?!_," Ratchet growled, coming up the hill behind the other autodog. His hackles immediately rose upon seeing Jetfire and Jetstorm; vibrant smiles appearing on both of the hybrids' faceplates just as quickly. "I thought you had said they'd run off," the labrador said lowly, turning on the engineer.

Wheeljack smiled wryly behind his blast mask, lifting his servos in what he hoped was a placating manner. It was doing the opposite effect of calming the vet though. "L-let's just sit down and enjoy a good meal, o-okay? And I swear to Primus, I really thought they would have run off by now!"

At the invitation, the younglings leapt to their pedes, racing forwards and looping an arm about each of the autodogs' arms. "Yes, yes!," they agreed wholeheartedly, "Come eat! Liking food will, promises!" The engineer practically used Jetstorm as a shield as he was guided over to the picnic the hybrids had set up in his absence; Ratchet being strangely docile as well, albeit with some quiet grumbling, while Jetfire wheeled him to the blanket. Sitting down a safe distance away from the labrador, Wheeljack scratched the twins behind their ears, studying the saran-wrapped dishes and the tupperware containers just full of energon goodies.

"It's a magnificent spread," he praised. "Isn't it Ratchet?"

The vet glanced down at the dishes, before turning his hardened optics back up to the bulldog. "Very," the older mech replied blandly.

Oh, Wheeljack could just tell that he was going to be in trouble later on for his lying. But, thankfully, that time was neither here nor now. With Jetfire and Jetstorm present, Ratchet would mind his manners, and even if he didn't, the enthusiasm of the younglings was a hard thing to ignore. Pleased by the compliments they had received and the guests they now had, the blue and orange hybrids set about dishing up the meal they had so lovingly prepared; handing a plate to each of the older 'bots.

Wheeljack accepted his from Jetfire gladly, sparing a moment to retract his blast mask before digging in. The bulldog glanced up in time to see Ratchet finally take the plate that Jetstorm was anxiously holding out for him, the labrador staring at the food almost disinterestedly. "No need to worry," the engineer grinned about his fork. "Just enjoy yourself a free lunch, and you can skulk back off to the hospital, I promise."

"I don't skulk," the vet grumbled, lifting his own utensil and jabbing at some of the servo salad. It crunched pleasantly, and tasted just as good once it touched his glossa. Not that the labrador was going to admit that... especially not with two sets of gazes locked on him intently. Maybe he should be double-thinking those negative effects about a sparkling being raised by Perceptor he had half speculated on earlier...

Pushing those thoughts aside, Ratchet attempted to eat through his meal, without making it seem like he was in a hurry to get out of there. Which was true, but he didn't need it to appear as such. For the first breem or so, Jetfire and Jetstorm did not partake in the food themselves. It wasn't until after a confused inquiry from Wheeljack did the hybrids finally dish a plate for themselves. From there on, they only picked at their food, too focused on the vet that sat on other side of them; committing each action and sound to memory. Completely oblivious to this oddity, the bulldog ate his fill of the picnic -nearly all that had been packed- before complimenting the younglings profusely, and handing them a small amount of credits to go and get themselves an energon cone from a nearby trolly.

"You really don't eat much, do you?," Wheeljack commented, once Jetfire and Jetstorm had skipped off.

Ratchet, grateful to no longer have those unshuttering set of optics on him, quickly put aside his plate of half-finished food, scowling at the bulldog. "This company was forced on me quite suddenly... it leaves my fuel tanks churning."

Wheeljack scratched at his ears sheepishly again, putting his blast mask back in place. "I apologize, I really do Ratchet. I had been hoping that Perceptor would join us today, but he's locked himself up again in his lab. I didn't think it would be right to let the twins' plans to go to waste... Not after they were looking forward to an outing," the white autodog explained. His optics dimmed just the slightest as he recounted these events to the vet. "It wouldn't be fair to them."

"No... I suppose not...," the labrador sighed, rubbing at his olfactory sensor in exasperation. These were situations he did not like getting into, and yet recently that's all that seemed to be happening to him. "But still, why me?"

The engineer shrugged, glancing over his shoulder plating fleetingly. "Jetfire and Jetstorm seem to like you," he replied.

"So I've heard...," Ratchet grumbled further. Shaking his helm, the labrador looked up and stared at the other mech unblinkingly. "The question is now though, why the slag didn't you just drag that pup out of his lab? He spends more time than is necessary there as it is. These are his sons after all."

"Don't I know it...," Wheeljack mumbled. "But I just can't hog-tie him and force him to soak up some light."

"Why not... it's what I'd do," the labrador retorted lowly. The bulldog wisely did not respond to that.

"Besides, Percy has his reasons. His work is beneficial to all, and he enjoys what he does. I don't want to take that away from him," the engineer tried to reason. "Would you like a drink?," he then asked, holding up a canister of cool oil.

"Yeah, yeah; alright," Ratchet agreed, allowing Wheeljack to pour him a cup. He took it silently, drinking a mouthful before returning his attention to the other autodog. "Now stop skirting the issue. You've been practically coddling that pup since I've met you. He's full-grown, Wheeljack, and with younglings. He needs to start acting like the responsible parent that he is."

"But, Ratchet-"

"I'm not about to dispute anything he's done up 'til now. I've seen 'bots do a worse job, and be better off than Perceptor. But he does need to talk to someone," the labrador interrupted. "I want to schedule some therapy sessions for him. If nothing else, then perhaps someone -someone more qualified- can help him not be so afraid. Those boys don't need to have that sort of burden on their shoulders... not as young as they are."

Wheeljack shuttered his optics in surprise. "And... and you think this will really help Perceptor?," the bulldog asked, his tone conflicted between anxious and almost hopeful.

"Only if you cooperate. Then... we'll see." Ratchet nodded. Wheeljack wanted to ask the vet some more questions, but Jetfire and Jetstorm were bouncing up behind him, energon cones in their servos -nearly finished.

"Slow being are we sorries for," the orange youngling apologized, popping the last bit of his cone into his mouth. He crunched it down quickly, grinning at the older mechs. Jetstorm merely blushed a little behind his own treat, taking tentative licks from it every couple astroseconds.

"Liking meal, did?," the blue twin asked, settling down next to Ratchet. He looked at the vet intently, ears half-lowered against his helm; as if they couldn't decide whether to perk with curiosity or flatten with anxiety.

The labrador looked first from the timid youngling, then to his brother, and lastly to Wheeljack -who was silently pleading with the older 'bot to be nice- before he turned his attention back to the hybrid. "It was... filling," Ratchet slowly answered. He tried to refrain from flinching when he saw Jetstorm's visor flare brightly, cheekplates flush with pride and joy. Slag, even the youngling's tail was wagging with unrestrained glee.

"But!," the vet quickly interrupted, before things could get out of hand. "I must be going now."

Two whines came, long-winded and spark-brokenly, and even Wheeljack looked somewhat disappointed. "You sure you can't stay longer, Ratchet?," the bulldog questioned.

He quailed a little under the glare the other autodog sent him. "You know exactly why I can't," Ratchet growled back. The engineer quickly scratched his ears a third time in embarrassment.

"Well, thanks for coming anyhow. I hope you have fun at w-"

"No, yet not!," the twins cried out quickly. Wheeljack and Ratchet startled at the shout, Jetfire and Jetstorm scrambling about the picnic set-up frantically. They unearthed two presents: one from the picnic basket, and another from the orange hybrid's knapsack. These they immediately presented to the labrador.

"Umm, what..."

"Jetfire? Jetstorm?," the bulldog started in puzzlement. "What's with the boxes?"

"Ratchet is for," Jetfire answered; his gaze was fixed entirely on Ratchet, same as his brother. "Gifts of thanking for him."

"And why would you need to be thanking me?," Ratchet replied suspiciously. The hybrids were still holding the presents out, waiting eagerly for the vet to take them.

"That's what I'd like to know as well..." Wheeljack mumbled in the background. No one paid him any mind. After a klik though, Ratchet finally folded and took the gifts.

"Now, I've really gotta go," he grumbled, rising quickly to his pedes. The younglings bowed their helms, hands placed neatly on their laps.

"Again thanking for company we are," the twins said in unison. They lifted their faces and grinned equally at the vet. "See of time next!"

Wheeljack smiled at the labrador as well. "Guess we'll run into each other later."

"Oh, we definitely shall," Ratchet smirked. That vile grin made chills run down the bulldog's back struts. The older mech really wasn't going to let that go... Glancing warily at the two hybrids, Ratchet again turned to Wheeljack, nodding his helm. "We'll talk later."

Without another word, the vet turned and walked down the hill. The three mechs watched him go, before the younglings crumpled, mewling in disappointment at the other autodog's hasty departure. Wheeljack leaned forward and patted both of them on their helms, drawing their attention. He smiled, even though he was still greatly confused. He had never known Jetfire and Jetstorm both to make individual presents and give them to a 'bot before, at least not one they had known for so short a time; their sadness for Ratchet's quick exit was a bit of a surprise in itself as well.

Definitely, the bulldog would have to ponder this conundrum later... if he remembered...

For now, he had two younglings to cheer up.

"Hey... it's almost break time for the research department. Wanna swing by and share what's left with our beloved Percy?"

Well, that perked the hybrids up. Jetfire and Jetstorm wagged their tails merrily at the proposition; rising to their pedes quickly and packing their things up. "Go Uncle Wheeljack, go! Mommy see now!"

The orange twin was actually pulling and pushing at him now, since he wasn't hurrying as fast as they would have liked. Laughing deeply, the bulldog finally rose to his pedes, smiling softly at the younglings as they attached themselves to his arms as per usual. "Well, then," Wheeljack chuckled some more. "Let's get going."

Perceptor was going to be in for big surprise.

**xxXxXxx**

Well _this_ was interesting.

Jazz slowed in his pace, eyeing the other autodog up ahead. The stranger was languidly striding down the hallways, optics flickering from door to door. It was obvious that he wasn't a city hall employee, despite how smartly he was dressed, because he was practically wandering about -for what, the dalmatian didn't know. His job -his duty- then was to find out just what the other mech _did_ want.

"Hey," Jazz greeted, coming up to the stranger. The slim autodog turned about, a smile touching rouge-coloured lip components.

"Hello," the stranger replied, vocalizer smooth and charming. Blue optics sparkled behind silver frames, making pleasant chills run up and down the security guard's back struts. "Is there a problem, sir?"

For a few astroseconds, Jazz was unable to answer. His mouth was slightly agape, vocalizer making strange, little clicks as he attempted to speak. Clearing his throat, ignoring the burning of his cheekplates, the mech returned his attention to the other autodog. "No problem. Just can't let ya wander the halls down here. This area'd be private offices, but if ya like I'll be happy to escort ya back to the front desk."

"Oh, but I have an appointment," the pomeranian said. It had taken awhile for the dalmatian to recognize the other's breed, and yet he wasn't so surprised to notice the pedigree. The multi-coloured 'bot's protest was light and easy, spoken with a smile on his face that could charm lesser 'bots into piles of satisfied goo. Jazz was grateful he could keep his cool so easily.

"Well, if that's the case, I'll be happy to guide ya to where ya need to go," the security guard again offered.

"That's alright. I wouldn't wish for you to go out of your way," the stranger once again waved off the proposition. "Besides, I know where I'm going."

That was odd... Jazz opened his mouth again, about to question just where exactly the pomeranian was going and who had given him the directions in the first place, but another mech strutting down the hall drew both of the autodogs' attention. "Forgive the intrusion, Jazz," Rodimus called. "But that mech is with me."

"Really now?," the dalmatian asked, actually perplexed. The stranger turned to the golden retriever, and Jazz caught the flash of recognition behind his glasses. Well, at least the security guard could be certain in the fact that the two mechs knew each other. To his inquiry, Rodimus nodded his helm, coming to a pause beside the pomeranian.

"Yes, he is. Do not worry, Jazz. We will go along our way and leave you to continue your patrol," the younger autodog assured. Rodimus inclined his helm forward again in farewell, before turning away and gesturing politely that the multi-coloured 'bot follow after him.

The pomeranian smirked, waggling his fingers at Jazz as he sauntered off after the golden retriever.

The security guard only watched the pair walk off, before releasing a heavy intake; one servo scratching behind his ear. Man... Sentinel was going to blow a gasket when he heard about an unchecked, unescorted civilian wandering about private hallways.

**xxXxXxx**

"_Help! Someone, I need help!"_

_A lone autodog, adorned with white ears and a stumpy little tail, ran up and down the street, optics wide and flashing brightly with fear and anxiety. Even the fins at the side of his helm were flashing a series of red lights. Stopping at the corner, the mech turned around and started his dash back down the street again. He did not stop yelling, calling for help in the darkness; hoping, praying, that someone would eventually hear him. Another mech up ahead was just crossing the street. Catching sight of him, the bulldog ran frantically toward the other autodog._

"_Help! Please, I need help!" He grabbed the stranger's arm, all but shaking the other 'bot_

"_Woah- hey!," the labrador growled, yanking his limb free. "What do you think you're doing?"_

"_I'm sorry, so sorry...," the bulldog rushed in apology. "But I need your help, please! It's urgent! M-my friend, he...he's..."_

_The older mech stared at the other for a short klik, before he turned his narrowed optics down the empty street. "Where?," he asked._

"_Uh...t-this way," the taller autodog flustered. Not hesitating a nanoklik longer, the bulldog ran back down the street, stopping half-way and ducking into an alley. The labrador followed behind quickly, slowing as he came up to the alley's entrance. He peered in suspiciously, not wanting to take a step further._

_The old 'bot took a cautious step backwards as the bulldog stumbled out of the alleyway, optics wide still. "P-please, he really needs help. H-he's...," Something crashed in the background, and the mech whirled about quickly, disappearing back into the darkness. The stranger stayed exactly where he was._

_The shuffling continued further, until the taller mech was limping out of the alley a second time. This time, he was not alone. His arms were wrapped around the middle of smaller autodog, a border collie, who was grasping his swollen chassis with pain. "P-please, h-he's gone into-"_

"_Labour! Yes, I can see that!," the labrador snapped, rushing forward immediately. He helped the_ _bulldog lower the third mech to the ground, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. Pressing his servos carefully along the border collie's protruding middle, the stranger continued directing his words to the other mech._

"_How long has he been like this? Why haven't you called for an ambulance yet?"_

_The taller autodog bit his lip components for an astrosecond, taking the shorter mech's servo when it flailed for him. He gave it a good squeeze, to which the border collie weakly rested his helm against the other's chestplates. "A-about half a cycle now...," the bulldog answered._

"_And you didn't think to get him to the hospital!," the labrador yelled. "These contractions are serious; your friend must have been having them for longer than half a cycle. Any minute and he could be protoforming all over the sidewalk, and you were too busy running about, screaming your spark out!"_

"_I-i'm sorry!," the other autodog apologized again. "I-i wanted to get him to the hospital right away... B-but we're new here, and we don't have a phone set up at home, nor a cell. I th-thought if a-anything, c-coming outside would t-turn out more helpful."_

_The older mech lifted his helm, staring intently at both border collie and bulldog. He could see how young they were now... the tall one that had begged for his help couldn't have been more than a few stellar cycles out of his youngling years. His friend, possibly younger. And sparked to boot. "...they just get younger," the labrador muttered to himself, pulling a cellphone out of his coat pocket. Flipping it open, he pressed it to his ear; free servo pushing along the smaller mech's abdomen again, testing how far along the contractions were now._

"_First Aid, yeah, it's me. Listen, I need you to get an ambulance to my location stat. Yeah, I'm not far. Just about round the corner, west-side," the stranger was saying into the mouth piece. "We've got two mechs here, and one is sparked. Tell the drivers to prep for a quick and sudden birth. I don't think we've got much time before the bornling starts to come out..."_

_Silence for a nanoklik, as the labrador listened to something his companion said across the line, the border collie clenching his denta tightly and leaning heavily on the bulldog. With a grunt of affirmation, the older mech snapped his cell close, slipping it out of sight once more. "I need you to help me lie him out more," the labrador ordered. "We need to get your friend to relax as much as possible. The ambulance should be along shortly, but these contractions won't wait or ease up. If I have to, I'll deliver the bornling myself, here and now... anything to keep from having complications rise up."_

"_C-complications?," the other autodog squeaked, shifting his friend so that his back struts were touching the concrete now; helm resting on the bigger mech's thighs._

"_Yes, complications," the stranger replied. He pushed the border collie's legs open, servos resting on the trembling knee joints. "Such as death. As uncommon as it is these days, things like that still happen. Unfortunately... Hey, listen you," the labrador growled, peering at the silent autodog suspiciously, "I need you to breathe alright. Nice, deep intakes. You hear me?"_

"_I-i am," the small mech gasped. He hissed at another painful contraction, falling quiet again, and seemingly not breathing as well._

"_Quiet friend you got there," the older 'bot remarked, looking up at the bulldog. The other mech had the decency to look somewhat ashamed, and the labrador was certain that if the younger autodog's servos hadn't been resting on the border collie's shoulders, they would have been behind his ears; scratching them guiltily. _

"_Yeah... he's always been that way."_

"_Hmmmm... Name's Ratchet," the autodog said after a klik. "I'm a vet over at the hospital."_

"_Wheeljack," the bulldog replied. He smiled gratefully at the labrador, exhaustion in his optics. "Thank you so much for stopping to help us, Ratchet. I don't think I would have been much use to Perceptor."_

"_Don't worry about it, kid," the vet waved off his thanks, just as the ambulance was pulling around the corner. It shrieked to a stop, sirens still blaring, as the paramedics jumped out from the cab. Ratchet rose to his pedes, barking orders as the other 'bots quickly and as gently as possible, lifted the border collie onto the gurney; raising him back up into the ambulance. _

_Wheeljack shuffled behind the vet's pedes, lurching forward worriedly as Perceptor was secured. "I need to come with you!," he exclaimed._

_The labrador, climbing up into the cab, paused, looking back at the other autodog. "We're packed as it is, kid. If you just go in this direction, you'll come up to Iacon square. The hospital is just past city hall there. You can see your friend again later."_

"_No!," the bulldog protested, throwing out his servos and catching the doors before they could be closed on him. "You don't understand! I have to stay with him -Perceptor's afraid of the h-hospitals. If I'm not there, I don't know-"_

"_Wheeljack!," came a weak, pitiful whimper; confirming what Wheeljack was saying._

_Ratchet stared at the border collie, slowly starting to squirm and shake with panic. Though the mech made no sound -same as when he had been in pain because of his contractions- his optics were still wide open; flaring brightly with anxiety._

"_You're not the father, are you?," the labrador questioned, turning back to the autodog still standing out on the street._

_The bulldog hesitated to reply, but slowly he did so, lowering his helm almost ashamedly. "No...," he whispered in reply. "But he needs me."_

"_...Alright," Ratchet sighed, pushing the doors open again. He ignored Wheeljack's stunned expression, shifting aside so that there was more room. "Hurry up and get in."_

_At the invitation, the younger 'bot scrambled into the ambulance, immediately taking up post by his friend's side again. Perceptor whimpered only once, servos clasping for Wheeljack's larger ones, before he fell silent again. The bulldog though was avidly whispering things to the border collie as the paramedics hurried about setting up their equipment and making sure that the smaller 'bot's readings were stable; the ambulance lurching forwards as they raced back to the hospital._

**xxXxXxx**

Ratchet onlined his optics, staring dazedly at his servos for a few more astroseconds before he lifted his helm, releasing a weary vent. His chair creaked as he shifted in it, but the autodog wasn't too bothered by the nasty shrieks that rose from the chair's coils. Shuttering his optics a few times, the labrador looked about his office, amazed that he had even been able to get a few breems of rest. Anytime he attempted to go to the on-call room with the other vets, he was always intercepted by somebot and then dragged off to some menial or boring task. Getting some recharge while on shift was impossible; but if he waited long enough, 'bots would eventually stay away from his office and the old mech could get some sleep then.

Not that it had been that pleasant of a recharge to begin with.

The vet reached across his desk, picking up the two small packages sitting on its surface. They were gifts, wrapped in blue and orange paper, bearing matching bows as well. The tags on both of them read that they were for Ratchet, and were from Jetfire and Jetstorm.

What a night that had been...

Perceptor had been so young, and so had Wheeljack really. Yet, these two younglings came from the tiny scientist; they were amazingly strong and sure of themselves, albeit somewhat naive. So much like their creator... and yet, not...

The twins were getting pretty attached to him as well. Being a fairly private mech himself, this was actually starting to unnerve Ratchet. There hadn't been a bot before, whether kittycon or autodog, who had placed so much attention on the labrador. Naturally, it just made the vet want to run off in the other direction, but he couldn't. Not now. For sixteen stellar cycles, he had known Perceptor and Wheeljack. Sixteen long stellar cycles... and the mysteries, questions and half-truths have held for this long.

The vet had meant what he had said to the engineer before: Jetfire and Jetstorm were too young to carry the burden of their creator's irrational fears. Worse than that, the hybrids were growing as well. They would soon be full-grown mechs, and with that came ambition and the freedom to make their own way in the world. The twins, Ratchet was certain, would fare fine on their own. They had all this "family" looking after them, obviously. But Perceptor...? It was hard to say how the scientist would handle this separation. It had taken a while, but the labrador had noticed over the years that though the border collie was seemingly emotionless... he wasn't entirely.

Underneath the surface boiled a well of restrained feelings; long repressed and festering unsupervised. It was what made Perceptor so afraid to branch out from the niche of a life he had weakly carved for himself. It also made him fiercely possessive of those closest to him, especially of Wheeljack and his sons. Losing either of them, whether literally or figuratively would topple the scientist's already unstable world and possibly send the other autodog into a series of panic attacks. More than like, that's when that ocean of tapped down emotion would swell over Perceptor's guards; drowning out his apathy and rendering the scientist weak before such an onslaught.

Medically, it would mean the border collie's own demise...

Such a future was becoming more and more of a reality everyday. Slaggit all, if Ratchet couldn't help but admit that he had grown somewhat of a soft spot for the younger mech. He didn't wish to see any of this happen to Perceptor -not after all these years of watching that cold, apathetic youngling take on the duties of a parent and scientist so valiantly. And succeed for the most part as well.

Oh, but what was he going to do with those two vibrant younglings, the labrador wondered, staring at the gifts further. He'd have to see more of them while he was helping their creator, and it was something Ratchet was not looking forward to.

If he wasn't so convinced otherwise, he could almost slag near believe that Jetfire and Jetstorm had a crush on him...

No, the vet thought, shaking his helm and rising to his pedes. He grabbed his datapads, heading for the office door. It would be best not to think about things like that, he surmised. Especially if he wanted to retain some fraction of his processor in the long run.


	5. Chapter 5

Business was just business, as they said.

Tracks checked his reflection quickly in his pocket mirror, smoothing out the last of the small wrinkles on his clothes, before closing the mirror and slipping it away in his coat pocket. He could feel optics focused on his back struts, and with a coy backwards glance, postured his hips enticingly; stretching excessively as he slipped on the sleeves of his Designer jacket. "I look forward to our next meeting," he said to the staring mech.

His partner -another autodog- merely sniffed derisively, crossing bulky forearms over a buff chassis. "Don't take this so seriously," the rottweiler sneered; the impudent attitude having returned after their blissful interface.

The slim autodog turned about, striding up to the other 'bot and pecking him on the cheekplates before a word could escape the mech's vocalizer. "I don't," he answered back, pulling away and out of servo range. "I just appreciate a mech whose good in the berth and out of it. Your... oh, what was that chap's name again...," Tracks drawled as he sashayed for the door. He could feel the autodog getting tense behind him and didn't mind that his teasing was bound to send the other into a rage.

"Ah, yes," he exclaimed, having drawn up the name, "_Optimus_. He is lucky to have your affections. Just wait 'til he knows all the amazing things he can experience with a spike like yours."

"_Shut up_," came the expectant growl.

Tracks had already made it to the door though, and felt no threat from the dangerous sound. He turned one last time, flashing the other mech with a cheeky grin. "I thank you for all your business today. Please feel free to call our company again when you require my services, Mr. Sentinel Prime."

And then he was gone, with a shake of his beautiful pomeranian tail.

**xxXxXxx**

It was hard living the glam life.

Most 'bots wouldn't have bothered. The pedigrees, the reputations, the styles and the trends... it was too much work for most others to waste their time and energy on. The economy shifted too often to fall into the business side of money, and fashion expired almost every cycle -something new, something better chasing just after its predecessors' heels. To stay on top of that ever-changing chaos shook the core of mechs and femmes alike, who opted to have inner stability than to grovel for illusions and smoke.

Tracks could not do the same though.

Born a pedigree, he was introduced to the life of high-class society through most of his sparkling years. Everything he wanted, and more, was given to him. He had every luxury, every item, every dream and all the aft-kissing affection he could hunger for. But like money had a tendency of doing, the money that built his family was soon lost, and they were once again demoted to a standard way of life. His creators, having been New Bloods to start with, were quick to make the transition back to their old common ways. For Tracks though, it wasn't as simple. Each memory of gleaming silverware, diamonds and gold silk stood out avidly in his processor; tempting and teasing him with things that were so far out of his reach now. A love for the aesthetics implemented itself into his young CPU; shaping his disdain for anything simple and robust, and building a sharp optic for reading and interpreting the trends.

The belief in his spark that only those chaotic things of high-class standards were worth his attention gained rapid foothold in the sparkling, and the world got an eyeful of the Tracks that would forever be.

Throughout his school stellar cycles -elementary and high school- the pomeranian pup maintained the best looks; keeping a top priority for hygiene and fashionable clothes, garnering many envious looks. He wasn't always able to get all the most trendy gadgets, having been put in a restrictive budget lifestyle, but he saved the credits he received from his creators as allowance and when a major shift happened in the market, Tracks was one of the first to have the newly appointed gizmo or accessory. But he didn't just stop there. Oh no, indeed not.

Though holding a high preference for beauty (as it was shaped by the rest of the world), Tracks was also aware that aesthetics weren't enough. Money wasn't susceptible just to the beautiful (they did gain some extra lead though); it was also a given for the intelligent, who made a habit of keeping and gaining more money after being pretty was no longer an option. Knowing this, the autodog put a fair amount of his time into his studies as well. Granted, he wasn't a genius... but his marks were never a decimal below a ninety percent average, and he still looked handsome doing it all. He wasn't just limited to his school courses either.

Tracks threw himself into nearly everything -strategies, music, business and culture for example. He sought out knowledge where he thought it to best be and soaked it all up like a dry sponge. By the time he was entering into his youngling years, the little pomeranian was ever so refined and smart that nearly everyone he met hated him, for they saw him as nothing more than a snooty, spoiled rich mutt. Tracks didn't really care; at the end of the orn, they still all wanted to be him anyhow. Staying true to the portrayal that he was one-up on the other autodogs, Tracks even learned everything he could about interfacing and biology. Granted, at such a young age the thought of that much open sexual expression and domineering prowess made the pomeranian curl his nose with slight disgust; being too reserved and untouched to find any sense in what he had learned.

That changed as well though, after having his spark-broken by a mech he truly cared for and shared his first interface with. Not allowing himself to slip into depression after that ordeal, Tracks returned to his archived memories of interfacing and began to put those lessons to use. The world had never seen a more harrowing sight than of that orn when beautiful, refined, intelligent Tracks stepped outside the safety of his home, oozing such amazing confidence and sexual appeal. Even the most austere of 'bots had a hard time keeping their processors off of the seductive pomeranian afterwards. Empowered by this new trait, the autodog came to the epiphany of a life-time, ensuring him the best and straightest path to his life-long dream: a place up among the rest of high society, surrounded by glamor and money.

Tracks realized, a youngling just cresting the last of his high school stellar cycles, that with his looks and his smarts and his sexual dominance, he could easily be getting other 'bots to pay him for the time spent in his presence. After all, it was only reasonable.

It seemed almost like destiny that Tracks found himself on the pay-roll of the city's most elite Escort service only a decacycle after coming to this decision.

**xxXxXxx**

"Good afternoon Tracks. Had a good lunch?"

The pomeranian stopped in his strut, turning to the speaker, a smile coming to his rouge-coloured faceplates once he saw who it was. "Ah, Mirage," Tracks greeted warmly. He quickened to the table that the other autodog sat at, sitting in one of the ruby, plush chairs. "Terrible bit of news my charming friend -there'll be a staggering drop of value in diamonds soon, so best to refuse those flashy little gems. You'll want to get your clients to buy you sapphires. Those'll be of top value in the market once the diamonds go."

"Oh?," the yorkshire terrier replied, fork playing with his small plate of servo salad distractedly. "How kind of you to share this with me, Tracks. You aren't always so charitable."

"Indeed not," Tracks hummed. He leaned in quickly to the fallen Noble and placed a chaste kiss on his lip components before drawing back and reclining easily in his seat once more. "But you are my favourite mech here, and I wanted you to know. Besides, you look best bedecked in sapphires."

Mirage pursed his lips sourly at the flirtatious comment, surplussed that his companion had kissed him without permission. Again. "You really need to stop doing that," he said, stabbing his salad viciously now before taking a monstrous bite. He did not care that his other coworkers in the lounge stared at his classless behaviour; it was none of their slagging business anyhow.

Tracks merely smirked at the yorkie's temper, ears perked in evident amusement. "Oh, yes, you asked me about my lunch, didn't you?," the pomeranian began, having remembered the initial conversation.

"Not sure that I really care to know anymore...," the blue mech grumbled, but he was dutifully ignored by the taller autodog who went on to answer the question.

"I had a terrific lunch today. Yes, indeed... Regular client who needed himself a fix before the start of the afternoon shift. It's amazing how much stamina he has... truly a wonder that we were even able to stop before his lunch hour was over," Tracks beamed, optics half-shuttered as he replayed the memory files of the past joor.

Mirage fully scowled now, ears flattened against his helm with apparent revulsion. "I don't understand how you can say such things like that, let alone sleep with a strange mutt. Sometimes I wonder if this job isn't just a glorified whore house..." The yorkshire terrier rose to his pedes, grabbing his plate of half-eaten servo salad; decidedly no longer hungry. The pomeranian copied his motion, walking by the other autodog's side as they crossed the room.

"Come, come now, Mirage," his partner said. "Don't be so cynical. Not all escorts sleep with the clientele -certainly I would never interface with a 'bot that I found displeasing."

"You wouldn't even take the client if you found them displeasing, no matter the job," Mirage pointed out snippily.

"Exactly!," Tracks rebutted. "That there is the difference between the work we do, and a pleasure 'bot, my friend. We have the ultimate choice in the end to accept _or_ refuse our customers. Whores don't have that option. They don't have privacy either, where as us escorts are low-key and protected by the company, so that our self-respect is maintained. Plus, not all assignments require sleeping with our clients. Many of them just require us to look pretty and speak proper so that the customer has a beautiful, respectable date for an evening out."

"And so your lunch-time romp is...?"

"Just a middle-class mech," the autodog answered, waving his servo dismissively. "Nobody really important. He does some security work and has some top-notch credentials, but he's nothing like my other clients. Then again, it's not as if he's asking for a date... he just needs someone for an interface here and there, but a 'bot that is clean and reputable so he won't be tarnished either should our interactions get out. I wouldn't comply to his requests if he wanted to show me around."

Mirage tossed the last of his meal into one of the garbage cans, putting his plate on the counter over top of the bin. "So basically, as long as he's not trying to take you out to the theatre or the club, you'll willingly have a quick interface with him in a storage closet," the yorkshire terrier noted.

"Yep!," Tracks replied. The pair walked out of the lounge together, heading to the elevator lifts. The company they worked for was set in a privately owned condominium complex, who was kind enough to let their employees rent out apartments in the building for a subsidized rate. Mirage and Tracks were literally neighbours, sharing the only two apartments on the seventh floor. As much as he enjoyed the other autodog's company, Tracks wished he had the penthouse suite. It was a better living arrangement for his glamourous life, as the pomeranian viewed it. But nobody was able to rent the penthouse -it was the home and head office of their manager. "It would be nice to move into something more spacious, with a 360 degree view," the multi-coloured mech sighed, pressing the button for the lift.

Mirage merely shook his helm, crossing his arms over his chassis loosely. "You'll never be satisfied with what you have, will you?" It was a rhetorical question, so Tracks did not bother to answer.

"Speaking of satisfied," the pomeranian piped up as the elevator doors dinged open before them. "I hear there is going to be an opening bash at that new club downtown. It's gossiped to be the ritziest thing since Botanica's greenhouse gallery was opened. Want to come with me tonight and test the waters? Only the beautiful and rich are getting in today."

Mirage mulled it over as he stepped into the elevator with Tracks, his finger pressing the button for their floor. "No, I think not," he eventually answered. "Clubbing really isn't my thing."

"Psh," Tracks denied. "You, my dear Mirage, need to get out some more. Blue Blood or not, if you don't get into the scene quickly, you'll be shut out for good and then how will you go about regaining your family's wealth?"

At that very moment, the pomeranian's cell began to ring; saving him from the other autodog's wrath and scandalized glare. "Yes?," he asked, flipping the cell open. It was quiet for a few astroseconds as Tracks listened to someone on the other line, humming back his own retinue of attentiveness. "Alright, I'll be up in a breem." He closed the phone, slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

"That was our dear house mother," the slim mech informed. "I'm wanted upstairs. Another client has asked for me tonight."

"Fair enough," Mirage replied, feeling all his anger leave him with the release of an intake. There was no point getting mad over every little thing that Tracks said, after all... sometimes the mutt was as proud and ignorantly rude as the people that the blue mech had grown up with. "I suppose then that you won't be going to that club."

"We'll see," Tracks grinned, reaching over and pressing the button for the top floor.

**xxXxXxx**

He had been, in fact, able to go clubbing that night.

Tracks wound his arms about the femme's waist, pulling her flush against his body as they gyrated to the throbbing music; pulsing lights flashing overhead, and hot frames pressed in around either side of them. Her pretty little labrador tail thumped lightly along his inner thigh, following the tempo of the music that they were dancing too. He was having fun, Tracks would have to admit, but he was getting tired of it all. A drink, he surmised, was in order. Perhaps afterwards he could muster the will for a couple more dances before guiding the other autodog out for a late night espresso, followed by a walk home. Swaying to the song still, the pomeranian began the anticipatory countdown -waiting for the right moment to pull back and state his desire for a drink as the music fell to a momentary pause before swelling again. As usual, he timed it just right, and was drifting through the mashed-up crowd of fellow dancers in only a few astroseconds. His 'date', as it were, followed after behind him.

The bar was a masterpiece of shattered glass fragments and gleaming metal, sculpted together in rare harmony, that drew in and reflected the lights all around it in a stunning display that was hard to avidly describe. Tracks could only stutter on the word beautiful; finding that such an adjective still fell short of the masterpiece before him. Tearing his optics away from the exquisite bar, the autodog focused on the mech just behind the counter. "Two high-grade cocktails; cold and bubbly," he ordered.

The surely autodog nodded his helm in acknowledgement at the order, turning around to start mixing the drinks. "I'm just heading to the powder room for a moment," his partner whispered to him, servos pressing on his forearm as she reached to speak into his ear.

"I'll be waiting, darling," Tracks replied, turning to face her, fingers lifting that gorgeous chin of hers. The labrador smiled at his flirtation, optics sparkling in mischief. She pulled herself free from his grasp, turning about and disappearing into the throng of 'bots. Content to sit and relax, having optics shooting him interested glances over drinks and shoulder platings alike, Tracks found his own optics roving over the party scene this night. This club really had style, and the pomeranian could see it retaining high-class business for the next couple stellar cycles, if not more. He would definitely have to come here again and possibly drag Mirage along as well.

The bartender placed their drinks on the counter, and thanking the mech graciously, Tracks grabbed hold of his own glass; returning to his viewing as he sipped at his cocktail. As if pulled by an invisible force, the autodog found his optics being drawn to the doorway. At that very moment a small entourage of 'bots were entering, a blue persian kittycon heading the pack. Tracks could feel an optic ridge rising with curiosity. That mech was dressed to the nines... the most fashionable suit of the week, an expensive designer silk tie, gold cufflinks and silver wrist watch. This stranger was someone new, fresh and evidently prosperous. The pomeranian could almost feel his wealth and opportunity from across the room; the aura of skill and good fortune trailing after the kittycon. It was hard for the autodog to tear his attention aware from the 'bot, and it didn't help that the persian was unbelievably handsome as well.

Tracks kept his optics on the group of newcomers, watching as they headed for a staircase just beside the DJ's platform and upstairs into the private booth on the second floor. A large, blackened mirror kept the interior of the room hidden from prying optics, but no doubt it allowed the people inside a chance to view the dance floor below. The autodog felt a sudden urge to get back out there and shake his tail. The thought of having that mech's sharp, red-lit visor on his form made a shiver run down his back struts. But before he could do so, his date for the evening returned from her trip to the powder room; hips swaying as she strutted up to the pomeranian.

"Ready to get out of here?," she asked, looking around the room in a motion that clearly stated she was bored now.

Despite his reluctance, Tracks fixed on a handsome smirk, holding his servo out for the labrador. "Of course, my lady." The femme took his servo graciously, giggling softly at his chivalry. Holding her servo firmly, Tracks led himself and the other autodog out into the cool night; his thoughts still on the mysterious kittycon back inside the club.

**xxXxXxx**

Glasses tinkled lightly, soft laughter and muted voices permeating the air, just a notch louder then the music being performed by the live orchestra positioned at one end of the hall. The crowd gathered tonight was of true high-class society, decked out in the finest outfits of silk and other gorgeous fabrics; femmes dressed in beautiful designer gowns from the world's top fashion icons, and mechs suited up in tuxes both bought from a boutique and tailor-made. All manner of jewels glittered on each of the 'bots, their fur brushed, fluffed and dressed for a night of regaling and good humour.

Holding a flute of the finest energon -chilled and bubbly, just as he liked it- Tracks meandered about the party; fluffy tail giving just the slightest bounce of a wag as he walked. He was dressed simply this night, but equally as fine: crisp, white dress shirt under a black, double-breasted satin vest, buttoned up the front, with matching satin pants. A silver chain bracelet, set with sapphires, a gift from his date this evening, encircled his right wrist; the gems set in it so large that they reflected the lights from the crystal diamond chandelier above in spotted, deep blue hues on the objects nearest him. Despite the lack of excitement happening here, Tracks was having himself a good time. He was surrounded by all the finest things and most successful 'bots in the world, acknowledged and admired as if he was one of them.

Which he planned to be soon.

Making his way around the crowd once more, Tracks finally took notice of a particular kittycon mingling with a couple very important CEOs of trade industries and energon processing within and without the city. His blue optics zoomed onto the beautiful blue persian ears and tail, his spark practically leaping in excitement as he recognized those distinctive features. There was the urge to go forth and speak to the strange mech, but the pomeranian maintained his position; recognizing that it wasn't his place to be so forward when he was being paid to spend the evening with his client, and when the unknown kittycon was no doubt discussing important business with the others. It made the autodog grin though, as if answering his unspoken thoughts, when that sharp visor lifted suddenly, resting upon Tracks.

With a flirtatious twirl of his hips, Tracks turned in the opposite direction, losing himself in the crowd once again.

**xxXxXxx**

He recognized that autodog.

Soundwave felt his visor dim in contemplative thought, searching his memory banks as he tried to recall where he had noted the pomeranian from. Lost in thought, the kittycon began to lose focus of the conversation he was currently having; all words and comments from Megatron escaping his notice. An archived memory file of throbbing lights and pulsing music flooded his sensory net; a twirling, beckoning frame that moved in time with the music. Ah, that's right... the persian remembered now. He had seen the autodog at the Nemesis; the new club that he co-owned as a side project. The mech had come many nights in the past decacycle, with or without a date. His multi-coloured frame and beautiful fur had drawn the kittycon's attention -the fact that he saw the other mech now surprised him somewhat, but overall, pleased him. He would have to do some further investigations, but Soundwave was convinced that this autodog might be the one...

"Apologies, gentlemen," Soundwave interrupted, in his usual monotone. "Attention: required elsewhere."

Megatron scowled at being cut off, but his companion tactically touched the larger kittycon's arm, instantly calming the CEO down. "We do not mind," the seeker at his side purred, shooting his mate pointed looks. "Business can be discussed further this week. Megatron will see to it." Grumbling further still, the tabby backed down, nodding his helm acquiescently. Thankful for the pardon, Soundwave was quick to leave. He wished to catch the autodog before he lost sight of him completely.

It wasn't hard to locate the mech in such a thin crowd.

The pomeranian was standing near the doorway to the balconies, arching enticingly as he reached for an hors d'oeuvre off the tray of a passing mech. Taking this moment of distraction, the kittycon sidled up behind the unsuspecting autodog; red visor committing the 'bot's details to memory. The mech before him was only a couple inches shorter than himself, with metallic skin of red, blue and silver colours. The clothes he wore sculpted his lovely chassis and hugged his slim thighs, bringing attention to his evident good looks and gorgeous tail. For an astrosecond, Soundwave found himself almost hard-pressed not to reach out a servo and stroke that luscious fur. Hearing his quiet rumble of approval, the autodog turned about, stiffening slightly in surprise before a coy smile graced his rouge faceplates.

"Good evening," the slim 'bot greeted in a sexy, cultured tone. His vivid blue optics sparkled behind his glasses. "May I be of any assistance?"

_'Yes,'_ the persian thought, erotic thoughts rising in the face of the pomeranian's flirtation. Soundwave was quick to fight them back. "Designation: Soundwave," the kittycon replied, avoiding the question. He held a servo out for the autodog.

"Tracks," the mech said, that coy smile having yet to leave his lip components. He took hold of Soundwave's servo, giving it a sturdy shake. "Charmed to meet you, Soundwave."

The way that Tracks said his name made the kittycon's visor flash almost lustfully. This autodog was well aware of his sensual appeal and was not afraid to use it. Soundwave admired that. He was reluctant to release the pomeranian's servo, but he did so, not wanting to push the boundaries between them. It was not civilized behaviour to do the opposite, after all. Tracks, having gotten his servo back finally, placed it behind his back; bringing his flute of energon to his lips and sipping at it daintily. The persian watched intently, almost transfixed by the sight.

"I don't recall seeing you around before," the autodog started, having finished his sip.

Soundwave refrained from shaking his helm at the fuzziness infecting his processor. "Explanation: New to town," he answered. "I have come to set up another company for my business."

"Oh?," Tracks asked. His ears perked in obvious interest. "And just what is your business? We have many trade and governing support systems here; it will be fierce competition to make your mark."

"Concern: unnecessary. Stocks and primary functions rest in communications. No company has yet been able to surpass my own." The kittycon wasn't trying to be arrogant, but it was the truth. His business, self-started no less, was already climbing up in the field. He was revamping the communication network, making them stronger, better and more self-sufficient. With amazing technology at his servos, his company was beginning to garner some attention for the level of perfection that his work entailed; other businesses in turn being influenced and strengthened with his company's involvement. There was no doubt in Soundwave's mind that within the next megacycle he would have carved himself a nice niche at the top of the world, ensuring constant stability for himself and his business. His goal was to unite the entire whole of Cybertron under his communication network, making his work invaluable.

As a new entrepreneur, it was not so surprising that his name was still unknown among the higher circle of business.

At the persian's boast, the autodog raised an optic ridge; his smile growing just a little wider. He went to say something, when his attention was suddenly drawn off to the side. Soundwave was almost tempted to see what had distracted the pomeranian, but did not wish to tear his own optics off the handsome mech. "I'd love to stay and chat some more," Tracks sighed almost apologetically, his focus returning to the kittycon. "But unfortunately, I am not here on my own free time tonight. I must get back to work now."

Soundwave nearly didn't react as the autodog walked past him, that gorgeous tail brushing his knuckles teasingly as the slim mech walked by. Finally, the persian realized that Tracks was really walking away from him and turned to speak to the pomeranian. "And if I wish to speak with you more?," the 'bot asked, not even touching on the question of what work the autodog could surely need to do at an event like this.

Tracks stopped in his stride, peering over his shoulder plating with lustful, half-shuttered optics. "Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to find me without a problem. Put your great communication network to practical use," he smirked, teasing good-naturedly. The mech started walking once again. "Goodnight, Soundwave."

Soundwave did not offer a farewell in return, watching as Tracks made his way across the room, looping his arm about another mech's and standing all pretty like for the crowd of revellers. Annoyed, and confused, the kittycon turned away; disappearing from the rest of the party.


	6. Chapter 6

There were optics all over him.

Music pulsed and lights flashed overhead, but Tracks paid them no mind, spinning faster and gyrating a little harder to the beat. All he wanted to do -all that he felt that he could do- was continue to dance, drawing in everyone's attention. In the back of his processor, he knew -or maybe it was just that he was hoping a little too much- that a bright, red visor would be watching him as he moved, from the black windows of the observatory room above the dance floor. Was Soundwave looking down on him now? Did his visor flash with lust, like it had back at that party the week before?

Tracks swayed his hips, stepping back a step before turning on his pede; finishing one last rotation before the song ended and another one picked up immediately after. Condensation was beginning to build up on his chassis, and he was warm enough that his intakes came in heavy, deep bursts now. All the same, he would dance until his legs could bear to hold his weight no longer, and only then would he return home.

All the while, thinking of the innumerable possibilities that stealing the blue kittycon's attention for a few hours would hold. Hopefully, the persian would respond soon. And if not... well, then Soundwave didn't really know what he was missing out on, and Tracks would quickly move on to his other, more sensible clients.

After all, moping was time and money wasted. Neither of which that the pomeranian cared to do.

**xxXxXxx**

"Sir?"

Soundwave lifted his helm slightly at the interruption, glancing back at the other mech over his shoulder. The tan kittycon merely cocked his helm, smile wide on his cheekplates. "I'm so sorry, sir. Was I disturbing something?"

Soundwave did not reply to the devon rex, instead turning his gaze to the dance floor below. A speckle of colours, muted greatly by the black glass, flashed into the observatory deck; reflecting off shined jewels and fur of the clubbers just beneath him. Though the persian looked and looked, he could no longer see the sleek, swaying form of one autodog bopping to the DJ's fast mix. Tracks must have finally left for the night. Visor dimming slightly in agitation, the blue mech turned to his guest, ignoring the rest of the 'bots below.

"Designation: Swindle, correct? Status of investigation: all necessary information has been gathered?," the businessmech asked, his monotonous vocalizer only touched with the faintest trace of annoyance.

Swindle, amazingly, smiled wider; his purple optics narrowing into slits on his face. "Why, of course, Soundwave ol' pal? When you go around looking for the best, eventually you are gonna find them. And if I do say so myself, I am the only one truly qualified for such a job," the kittycon boasted.

Soundwave was not impressed, but didn't bother to comment on his clear distaste for the private detective. "File, if you please," the CEO demanded, holding out his servo.

The devon rex only continued to smile though, waggling his finger coyly at the persian. "Now, don't be so hasty," the shorter kittycon tutted. "There's still the topic of payment that has yet to be discussed."

"Payment: will be awarded. Credits are already being transferred over to your account as we speak."

"Really now...? And how can I be so sure that you're not just yanking my tail, hmm? I don't do Pro Bono cases, you know, not even for up-and-coming business Elites like yourself."

The taller mech nearly snarled at the other kittycon. "Swindle: middle-class private detective. Resident vagabond and chief informant of underground network. Holds seat of power in the Black Market; yet to be identified as ring-leader of illegal arms trade within the greater Iacon region. Characterization: over-confident, sly, greedy. Said to sell his own creator if it would ensure a transaction. Continuation: necessary?"

"W-well now...," Swindle coughed, his grin fading just a bit in discomfort. "You really do have a vast communications network, dontcha? I suppose I'm going to have to keep my helm low for a little while... Here, then. Your files," the devon rex held out the folder for Soundwave to take, grimacing the whole while. "Everything you wanted to know about the autodog Tracks, and more, if I dare say so. I'll trust that you're a mech of your word and will see those credits in my account tomorrow morning. Until we meet again then, I bid you adieu."

The persian merely nodded his own helm, taking firm grasp of the folder. He was glad to see Swindle finally leave, in silence no less. The larger kittycon did not take well to threats, and he was content in the knowledge that the other mech would not dare to cross him again, should he want to remain free of the stockades and clean of record. Shifting the folder in his servos, Soundwave stepped across the observatory deck to the desk positioned along the left wall of the room. Quietly, he sank into his chair, setting the folder on top of his desk. His visor noted right away how the file was slightly thicker than that of a regular citizen's, but did not carry nearly as much bulk as a businessmechs' or convicts' case file would. That, at least, assured the kittycon some, who needed certain expectations made if Tracks was to meet his standards.

And he seriously hoped that the pomeranian was worth it all.

He could already feel his lust raging for that slim form, that swayed and bent like starlit ribbons caught in the coyest of breezes; fur so soft and shined that the persian knew he would never want to untangle his fingers from it. With smiles so beautiful he longed to keep them all to himself and smouldering blue optics that seemed to burn into the very core of his being.

Everything about Tracks was like sin and paradise all rolled into one entity... and Soundwave wanted to dominate this mech. Have him scream his name as they interfaced, have him melt and weaken in his very arms when he simply held him; wanted to gently pet the autodog and be confident in the fact that no one else could have such a privilege, as well as to kiss and lull him to calm sleep within his berth.

Tracks had prompted him to begin the chase.

Soundwave had happily obliged.

Beneath the cover of this folder lay some insight into the mech that was Tracks. This was only the starting point to the autodog's capture.

**xxXxXxx**

"Alright -I'm up, I'm up!"

A servo scrambled from beneath a pile of blankets, spreading across every inch of the nightstand until they closed across a pair of frames. Glasses found,Tracks, grumbling the entire time, pushed himself out from his berth; tossing aside the thick, downy covers as he got to his pedes, before slipping a night robe on as he headed for his door. The obnoxious knocking continued for what must have been the hundredth time, before pausing again. Tracks thankfully reached his front door before the annoying sound could start another repetition, frowning as he opened the door.

"What the slag- Mirage?!" The curses that had wanted to spew from the pomeranian's mouth at being disturbed so early in the day faded on the tip of his glossa when his rude knocker turned out to be none other than his neighbour. Confused, and more than a little slow still, Tracks sleepily mumbled, "What seems to be the problem, 'Rajy?"

The blue yorkie pursed his lips in irritation, propping his servos on his waist. It was then that the taller Autodog noticed his friend was also dressed in a night robe -a satin sky blue- and looked as if he had been just as rudely awoken not but a few breems ago. "Can't you be bothered to charge your stupid cell!," Mirage growled.

"What are you...," Tracks trailed off, looking over his shoulder to his cellphone sitting on the little entryway table. Silently he picked the device up, flipping it open. The screen remained resolutely black, proving that the cell had actually died and would need to be charged again.

"Oh," the pomeranian exhaled, "Must have forgotten to check it after coming home last night..."

"That's very nice and all," Mirage snapped irritably, "But you're not the only one who has late night business. I've been getting calls and texts from the house mother for the last half a cycle, asking where you are and that she needs to see you A.S.A.P. _Slaggit_, Tracks, I am tired as frag!"

"Okay, okay... I apologize that you had to be woken up to run around like my messenger 'bot. I promise that I'll keep my cell charged and won't disturb your beauty rest again. Do you still love me?"

The other autodog scowled at the ridiculous apology, lip component curling slightly at Tracks' question. "I'm not in the mood to play your little games. I'm going back to my apartment now... and if this does happen again, Tracks, rest assured that I won't simply come knocking on your door like a good little mech. Next time, I'm out for _blood_."

"Absolutely chilling...," Tracks noted dully as Mirage turned on his pede and stormed across the hall. Yawning, the pomeranian shut his door, turning and walking back into the main area of his apartment. He was still very tired himself and wanted nothing more than to recharge a little longer... but if the house mother was calling, then that meant he should hurry along and head upstairs. First though, he needed a shower...

**xxXxXxx**

That night found Tracks sitting at one of the tables in the downstairs lounge, picking at his dinner.

"Funny to find you here at this time of night."

The autodog lifted his optics, a smirk coming to his face as he looked up at Mirage. "My, my, my...," the multi-coloured mech leered. "Don't you look absolutely ravishing."

Typical Mirage blushed at the comment, scowling somewhat. Self-consciously, he smoothed out the front of his cashmere top, jangling his silver bangles. "Aren't you the charmer," the yorkie replied, trying to regain his composure. "Does anything but insults and praise come from that silly mouth?"

"I could show you if you'd like."

Mirage's blush deepened. "You're incorrigible, I swear," the blue mech huffed. "I wonder how many of your clients are aware that you're such a sexual deviant. More so, I wonder if you even know what the meaning of shame is."

"Now, why would I need to ashamed for?," Tracks smiled good-naturedly. He pushed out the only other chair at the table, inviting Mirage to take a seat. The autodog did, sitting rigid against the straight back. "Come now, relax... I won't jump you in the lounge. Unless that's what you want."

The yorkie shot him a nasty look, and Tracks quickly chuckled in mirth. "No, really. Enough of this amusing banter. Tell me: how did your date go?"

"...fine," Mirage replied slowly. "He wanted to take me to the theatre. We saw that production about those strange little creatures without fur, had some energon and a small bite to eat at the Steel Haven. Then I came home. All in all, it was an uneventful night."

Tracks leaned forward, resting his chin in his servo. "I see... Would this be the same mech that has been taking you out for the last decacycle?"

"Yes."

"Oh, 'Rajy! That's great news! That mech has actual Duke-status, and his business in clothing materials is exceptionally prosperous. If you've caught his attention, you just may be able to climb back up into the inner circle again!"

Mirage merely turned his helm away, staring at something uninteresting at one corner of the room. "Perhaps so...," the yorkie replied blandly. Even Tracks noticed the flatness of his tone, but before the pomeranian could remark on it, the other autodog was speaking again. "And what about you, Tracks? Even on your off-days, you're not a usual sight to be found in the lounge before midnight."

"Yes, well...," Tracks sighed, "I don't quite feel up for a night out today."

"Excuse me?," Mirage said in stunned disbelief.

"I had my monthly scan today. They leave me feeling somewhat drained," the multi-coloured 'bot added.

"Ah...," his companion replied. In their business, monthly scans were mandatory, as set by their manager. Because the escorts catered more often than not to their client's sexual needs, it was essential then that they were checked regularly and kept on top of their health. A sick escort was virtually useless, and if they couldn't be repaired within a stellar cycle's time, then they were usually let go. Having no actual skills of his own, Mirage did his best to maintain a perfect systems status at all times and, as a rule of thumb, did not sleep with any of his clientele. He did not want to end up like one of those unfortunate 'bots who could no longer work, and thus, were forced from their homes and out onto the cold streets. He knew he wouldn't be able to survive if that did happen...

Tracks though, did not seem so paranoid about such a thing happening to him, and slept with a good quarter of his clients. He had his monthly scans done (sometimes more than once in a decacycle, if he interfaced often within that period) and he always seemed just a little more tired than usual afterwards. The pomeranian's exhaustion did not seem the only thing wearing him down today though.

"There's something else that's bothering you, isn't there?," Mirage asked, in an odd moment of concern.

Tracks locked optics with the yorkie, and smiled wryly before exhaling loudly. "Indeed," the taller Autodog answered. "I'm sure you've heard of this Soundwave fella by now, yes?" Mirage nodded his helm.

"Yes, well, I met him at that soiree last week -the one where I came home with that large, gorgeous sapphire bracelet, remember? I could tell he was interested in me, and really, he's a pretty handsome bit of 'bot himself. If it had been any other night, I would have chatted him up; given him our business card so we could see each other again. But, I had work to do and unfortunately soon parted ways with him just after starting conversation. He boasts about the greatness of his communication network, but that mech has not even contacted the Agency yet and arranged for a date. Do you think he might not actually be interested in me?"

Mirage didn't know what to say. Tracks and him had only ever retained a shaky sort of camaraderie at best; this spark-to-spark felt almost invasive, and certainly the yorkie was lost at how to respond. He didn't even know the pomeranian well enough to accurately gauge his emotions and give the right advice. Shifting in his seat almost uncomfortably, the blue mech lowered his gaze to his lap. "Perhaps he does not have the time or care for our services. Yes, we are a convenience, but surely that doesn't mean we are always sought after," the fallen Noble explained. "Are you really going to let that lower your spirit though? You, who are so domineering and in control?"

Tracks quickly regained his grin, lifting a servo and stroking the other's cheekplates. Mirage allowed it for the moment, just glad that the awkwardness had finally passed. "My, my, my...," the tri-coloured mech breathed, "You certainly are a tease, aren't you my lovely Mirage? Such beautiful words coming from an even sweeter mouth... you have me spell-bound, and I have to confess I'm quite content being so enraptured by you."

"Of course you are," Mirage drawled, pulling back from the personal touch after a couple more astroseconds. "C'mon," he started, rising to his pedes. "You may be too tired to party tonight, but I know of the most wonderful little cafe not too far away from here. They're opened late and I feel like a cup of hot oil and some energon tarts. Care to join me?"

"Ooh, certainly!," Tracks beamed, practically leaping to his pedes. He walked around the table, looping arms with the shorter autodog. "Shall we get going then?"

The yorkie rolled his optics, but fell into step with the pomeranian; both autodogs heading out into the night for a little fun and companionship.

**xxXxXxx**

His back struts hit the wall harshly, but before he could even contemplate on it further, servos were yanking at the buttons of his clothes; a hot mouth and hungry glossa laving at his throat. Tracks moaned into the pleasurable assault, wriggling against his attacker's hold to get more comfortable. Once he found a position he liked, he immediately went to assist his fumbling partner; slacks falling down to his pedes, and shirt opening to bare his chassis to the other 'bot.

"Y-you're pretty eager to-today," the pomeranian choked, shivering.

"S-so are you," Sentinel leered. "I don't t-think I've seen somebody lubricate that fast before."

"Mmmmmm," Tracks moaned, grinding. "'Spose I've just been a-anxious fo-for our n-next ap-apointment."

The next few actions on Sentinel's part were so simple, that Tracks could have reiterated the motions with his optics shuttered. They had, after all, gone through the same procedure many times before. First, the thicker mech would undo his belt, pulling his pants down to about mid-thigh or his ankles, if he wasn't feeling too lazy. He would undress no further than that, not particularly concerned about physical appearance as his partner was. Next, Sentinel would, obviously, enter Tracks; the two of them writhing together, the pomeranian pinned to whatever available wall, until they had overloaded as much as they desired.

There was no love exchanged, because this was a business transaction and the goal at the end was to finish as satisfactorily as possible. Servos would roam, and mouths would caress, but not out of romance so much as a need to touch and feel as they spiralled to oblivion.

It was not surprising to find the mech howling out his overload a few astroseconds later, chassis trembling as energy zinged through his entire frame.

Sentinel followed a nanoklik after.

"A-again," the rottweiler mumbled, glossa heavy from the processor-numbing overload.

Tracks, shifting a little in position, wrapped his arms more securely about the security guard's neck. "Whatever you like, sir."

The rest of the cycle continued much the same. As they were preparing for one final interface, Tracks this time bent over the desk in the security office, a ringing started, tearing through the lustful aura of the room. Frowning as he realized it was his own cell ringing, the pomeranian slapped away Sentinel's wandering servos, standing up and strutting across the room completely naked, to his clothes left in a pile beside the door.

"Hello?," Tracks asked, flipping his cell open immediately after digging it out of his pocket. He sat kneeling on the floor, aft arched enticingly to Sentinel. The rottweiler rumbled approvingly at the sight, frowning when the pomeranian caught the sound and turned to grin at him. "Yes, I understand," the tri-coloured autodog said into his cell. "I'll be there shortly."

Snapping his phone shut, Tracks gathered up his clothing, rising to his pedes once more. "Bad bit of news, darling," the mech explained as he dressed. "It's time for me to leave."

"I get you for a cycle though," Sentinel huffed, covering his arms over his chassis irritably.

"And a cycle you had me for," Tracks grinned. "But your time is up now, and my employer harkens that I scurry on home. So much to do, so little time and all that jazz..."

"Fine," came the responding growl.

Chuckling a little under his intakes, the pomeranian finished dressing, quickly checking that he appeared sightly. "Ta-ta love," the Autodog said, blowing a kiss to the rottweiler. "Until we meet again."

And with that, he was out the door, heading back home.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks had practically ran home.

His spark puttered excitedly in his chestplates as he ran through the condo doors, sprinting for the elevator lifts. He tapped his pede impatiently, silently willing for the elevator to come along faster. Since receiving the house mother's call, the pomeranian had been anxious to get back home.

The reason being?

His employer had called about a new candidate that wanted to meet him. She never called him about potential clients while he was away on an appointment. This meant that the mech or femme visiting was an exceptionally important figure, which equalled to a nice, fat paycheck if he agreed to go out on a "test-run" date. And if the client was attractive enough and Tracks won over their affections... that could mean a lot more lovely paychecks in the near future.

As it was though, Tracks was already running a couple minutes late. Normally, he would head home and wash up -make himself more presentable before seeing this new client. He would not have time for that now, but perhaps after the introductions, he'd be allowed some time to go and freshen up before heading out. While the pomeranian was mulling this over, the elevator arrived, the doors dinging as they opened to grant entrance to the autodog.

Tracks hurried into the lift immediately, pushing the button for the penthouse suite. The elevator ride upstairs seemed to take forever before the doors were opening again, dropping the mech off in front of a frosted, glass door. He knocked, and waited until he heard his employer's answering reply before entering.

Flare-up's penthouse suite was spectacular. Everything was a blend of glass and metal, blazing with colours of gold, white and fire-red –similar to her own fur colour. Light from the pot lamps installed in the ceiling glittered on nearly everything, and the bay windows that made up every wall only brought in more sunlight; making the entire apartment appear as if it was radiating light all on its own. The delicate, nearly pure, beauty of the place appealed to Tracks and he thought that if he ever should get his own penthouse, he would mirror it in ways after Flare-up's. Just, better obviously.

Stepping further into the apartment, the pomeranian rounded the corner coming to the office space set up in the large living room area. The femme was already sitting behind her desk, waiting for him. "I see you've finally arrived, Tracks." One of her jack russel terrier ears twitched with the greeting.

Smiling, Tracks inclined his helm slightly to the woman. "Indeed I have. I only hope that I have not displeased our honoured guest. In which case...," the mech said, looking about, "Where have they gone?"

"To the facilities," Flare-up answered. She flicked at a speck of invisible dirt along the shoulder of her pin-strip suit. "In the meantime, take a seat."

Tracks did so obligingly, not bothering to add any frivolous or promiscuous comments. Flare-up was much too serious of a femme to take his banter lightly and in fact would be more likely to punish him for his words. Though everything about the jack russel appeared delicate, she was anything but. From her speech patterns, attitude and clothes... everything held just an edge of sharpness that ensured a deep cut to anyone who crossed her. Even her mechfriends were a sight to behold! Tracks once had the misfortune to meet the rumored Warpath...

...he never wished to run into the boerboel again.

But, the pomeranian supposed, Flare-up's tough but smart grasp on life allowed her to run the Escort system without any glitches. The femme was not one to be pushed around by either clients or her escorts. She was good at what she did, and it was something that Tracks respected.

"How did Mr. Sentinel take the news?," the jack terrier asked suddenly, interrupting the quiet that had fallen between the two autodogs.

Tracks smirked. "As well as any mech who has their interface period cut short can. Though I doubt I left him without much to complain."

"As to be expected of you," Flare-up grinned slightly in return. "As it is, you're perhaps one of our top escorts at this time. If you weren't so damn picky, you'd probably be a lot more popular. But I understand your standards and am glad to see some sort of restraint within you. I think though, that you will find this mech in your tastes as well. He seems to have some former knowledge of you, anyhow."

"Oh?" That wasn't too surprising, really. A pleased client was likely to inform his trusted buddies about his preferred escort. It was how Tracks had plenty of customers.

"This one has requested for a date tonight. I've checked your schedule, and you have no clients for the rest of the evening," the femme announced, as she began to gather together her files. "I'll set up an account for our new client, which should give you plenty of time to clean up."

"Yes, of course," Tracks answered.

"Ah, here comes our new customer now." Flare-up started to rise to her pedes, and the pomeranian followed suit. Turning to face his date, Tracks felt his spark leap in his chassis, heat pooling in his cheekplates.

"Tracks," Flare-up introduced, "meet our honoured client, Mr. Soundwave."


	7. Chapter 7

This was new.

Tracks could feel that steady gaze fixed on him; he shifted almost inconspicuously on the leather seat, letting his servos slide down his thighs as he folded them against his abdomen. He caught the flash of that red visor and had to suppress the smirk that rose. But even despite his subtle flirtations, Soundwave did not move from where he sat across the autodog. The entire ride thus far, the kittycon had sat opposite of Tracks, making light conversation and offering a drink to the mech from the limo's bar. The talk Tracks had engaged in eagerly; the champagne he had decided to decline.

He would have taken some of that liquid gold now if it meant he could have the persian at his side.

Why was Soundwave insisting on sitting so far away from him?

Tracks wanted to pout. Most mechs -slag, even most femmes- would be welded to his side by now; touching and kissing each other fervently, with possibly a quick romp on the plush seating as well. He had thought that the blue mech was interested in him... had he been wrong?

"So... just where are we going, anyhow? You still haven't told me," the pomeranian started, lifting his helm and making optic contact with the kittycon.

Light gleamed off of Soundwave's visor, but it did not reveal any of his secrets. "Destination: surprise," he answered, refusing to give any more information. Tracks merely hummed, feeling slightly annoyed. Soundwave had kept quiet about where they were going since leaving Flare-up's office.

No flirting, no means of advances, no sharing with him where their destination was...

Just what kind of date was this?

The vehicle started to slow, and Tracks turned his helm to the window. Unfortunately, he could not see much past the dark pane and the blue mech quickly drew his attention again afterwards, keeping the pomeranian from trying to deduce their location. "Notice: we have arrived," the persian announced, getting to his pedes and heading for the door. He stepped out onto the sidewalk as the limousine came to a full stop; looking back and holding out his servo for the autodog.

Tracks smiled coyly as he took the proffered limb, sliding out of the black car with one fluid motion and pressing into Soundwave's side immediately. He was tempted to run his fingers down those glorious chestplates, but the kittycon was releasing his servo shortly after; letting his other servo fall to the small of the pomeranian's back, turning the both of them forwards. Any of the multi-coloured mech's disappointment was quick to fade though as his mouth gaped slightly in shock.

"S-steel Haven?!"

The lights of the restaurant glittered like a web of stars before them; red carpet lining the stairs leading up to the building's glass doors. Bots, both kittycon and autodog alike, walked up and down those steps, all dressed in their finest and laughing with merriment. Valets and drivers waited along the sidewalk, ready to serve the high-class that evening. Tracks, in utter awe, looked between them all -was this real? Was he really, honestly and truly, here? Steel Haven was the highpoint of elite dining: made for the rich, the powerful and the well-known. In accordance, it was just as hard to get a table at the restaurant during the night. Though the pomeranian had been many places before, none of his dates had taken him here.

Excitement crackled across his circuits, making something bubble up deep inside. "So we're to have a nibble here first then?," Tracks asked, smirking up at the persian.

Soundwave turned his helm to the other mech, leading them up to the doors. "Affirmative," he answered. "Inquiry: Does this please you?"

A doorman held the door open for them as the couple entered. Inside was even more fabulous, and Tracks had a hard time not cooing in pure delight. There were more mechs and femmes that he could recognize within; bots that had their own spreads on Cybertron Press and Galactic Girl magazines. Truly, the autodog was among social royalty.

"Oh... I am very pleased," Tracks smirked breathlessly. "I must thank you appropriately, later on." He tried to share a wink with Soundwave, but the kittycon simply turned away, avoiding optic contact with the pomeranian.

That was... How was Tracks supposed to respond to that?

The autodog kept smiling, trying to appease himself with all the celebrities and CEOs surrounding him, but it couldn't completely squash the confusion welling in his spark. Soundwave's servo was still on his backstruts, though it did not move anywhere else. The bookkeeper met them about half-way past the doorway, smiling and bowing as the mech checked their names off and called a waiter to seat them. Within a few short minutes, both Tracks and Soundwave had been seated in a semi-private booth, away from the hubbub of the rest of the crowd.

"Cozy," the pomeranian noted, making himself comfortable on the satin seats. The chairs were nice and plush; Tracks could practically sink into them blissfully, never to emerge. Unshuttering his optics, which had closed during his moment of enjoyment, the multi-coloured mech was surprised to see Soundwave studying him intently.

The intense gaze was enough to make Tracks blush again.

"Action: order whatever you'd like," the persian said, holding out a menu for the autodog to take.

"Anything, hmm?," Tracks hummed, feeling his spark whirl as he turned on his charm again. "I'm tempted to just ask if I can have you to go." He hid his smirk behind the menu as he saw Soundwave lean across the table an inch or so, blue ears pointed high to the sky with attentiveness. "So tell me, you come here often?"

"Negative," Soundwave answered, finally tearing his gaze away from the pomeranian after a klik and glancing at his own menu. "Fact: First time coming to this specific restaurant since moving to Iacon. But, would be willing to come more often if you would accompany me."

He could not help the pom-pom shake that his tail made as the kittycon answered him, and Tracks was certain that he must have been beaming like a sparkling handed their favourite treat. Soundwave was practically giving the autodog everything he ever wanted! A night on the town among the prestigious and beautiful; the chance for a hot, gratifying interface; a big, handsome paycheck... "Darling, there's nowhere that I wouldn't mind going with you," Tracks answered sultrily, closing his menu and setting it on the table top.

Soundwave's visor flashed again that evening.

"Good evening sirs," a femme greeted, coming up to the booth. "I hope you are both having a delightful night thus far; may I take your order?"

Tracks almost wanted to pout at the interruption, but he refrained, instead glancing at the waitress. She was sort of a cute thing... "We're doing well, thank you," the multi-coloured mech started, smiling at the femme, "And as for myself, your Shrimp Etoufee sounds enticing. I believe I shall have that."

Nodding her helm, the waitress turned to Soundwave. "And for you sir?"

"Order: shall take the cranberry glazed pork tenderloin. Add in a bottle of Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque Blanc de Blanc."

"Understood," the femme replied, noting the kittycon's dish on her notepad. "Entrees are started with a salad and an appetizer of your choice; this month's special being the Fresh Garden salad with an Italian vinaigrette dressing and grilled mushrooms stuffed with minced pork and blue cheese filling."

"Month's special shall suffice," Soundwave said.

"Good choice, sir," the waitress continued. She took their menus, folding them just behind her notepad. "Your salads and drinks shall be along shortly." With a quick bow of her helm, the femme hurried off to the kitchens, to place their orders before helping another customer.

"Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque Blanc de Blanc, hmm?," Tracks smirked, once they were alone again.

"Inquiry: you know of it?," the persian asked, turning his helm to the pomeranian.

"Indeed I do. Though I am sad to say I have only had it once before." And for good reason too. The autodog knew the price tag on a bottle of that delectable champagne. Fifteen thousand for a simple bottle... most 'bots wouldn't fork out that much for such an alcohol, didn't matter if it was the most delicious champagne to be found on Cybertron or not. "I'm surprised that you'd order it though. I didn't take you for a champagne drinker."

"Fact: impartial to such drinks," Soundwave answered. "Assumption: thought that you might enjoy it."

Again, Tracks was blushing; optics bright with excitement. This kittycon knew just how to spoil a 'bot. "And enjoy it much I shall. Thank you for your thoughtful consideration."

Their dinner came along shortly after that, and it was quiet for a time as they ate. Tracks instigated conversation between dishes, trying to keep his mind off the fact that he had yet to see Soundwave remove his mouth guard at all the entire meal thus far. He knew the persian was eating -his plate was nearly cleaned by the time the waitress came to take their dishes- but the blue mech always seemed to wait until Tracks had turned his own helm away before touching a bite of his food. Just what was the kittycon hiding under that golden covering? Was he horribly disfigured? Did he have scars? The pomeranian just couldn't figure it out, and he was growing desperately more and more curious by the nanoklik.

'_Well, he's gotta take it off some time tonight,' _the autodog thought to himself, lifting his glass and sipping at the bubbling champagne within.

"My... that was delicious," Tracks sighed, patting the corners of his mouth with his napkin, having finished his meal.

"Affirmative," Soundwave agreed, setting down his own utensils. Both of their plates were empty, nothing but sauce and small scraps remaining from the entrees. "Inquiry: Would you care for some dessert?"

"Hmmm...," the pomeranian thought about it for a moment, before waving the suggestion off. "No, I think I shall decline this time. This meal was much too good, I'm afraid I don't have the room enough to eat another bite."

The kittycon nodded his helm, and as their waitress from earlier arrived to take their plates, he politely asked for the bill. "Where to next then, love?," Tracks asked, leaning across the table. He folded his servos under his chin, letting his opticlids shutter to half-mast. "Or is that a surprise as well?"

"Negative," Soundwave answered. He paused momentarily, pulling out a credit card and handing it to the femme who had just returned, not even bothering to look at the bill. The waitress scanned the card, giving it back to the persian, a smile on her face.

"Thank you for your business, gentlemen, and have a good night." With another bow of her helm, she turned away to go and serve the other patrons.

At her exit, Soundwave rose to his pedes, once again holding his servo out for Tracks. The autodog took it graciously, loving the way the thicker, golden servo nearly encompassed his own. He was surprised though when the blue mech lead his servo under the other's arm; leaving the pomeranian's arm to be looped around the persian's. Not that Tracks really minded... it gave him more of an excuse to stay pressed into his partner's side.

Smiling up at the kittycon, Tracks said, "You still haven't told me where we're going next."

Soundwave inclined his helm in acknowledgement to the multi-coloured mech's words. "Status: Is a beautiful evening. Inquiry: Would you care for a walk?"

Tracks couldn't help the stunned shuttering of his optics. Soundwave led the both of them outside, stopping just beside their limo, waiting for the pomeranian's answer. "O-oh, yes; of course!," the autodog quickly stuttered in reply; mentally berating himself for his folly. Why did he have to idle like that for?! Surely Soundwave must of thought him as glitched. But, a walk? Was the kittycon being serious?

The persian turned to the limo, bending down a little and speaking to the driver within. As he was straightening up, the black vehicle pulled away from the curb; driving back out into late night traffic. "Come," Soundwave said, directing Tracks to the main sidewalk. The slimmer mech followed silently; too stunned to adequately respond.

After a few kliks of silence though, the kittycon took notice of his companion's silence and decided to comment on it. "Inquiry: Is this not a satisfactory proposition?"

"Huh? Oh, well...," Tracks trailed off, uncertain how to continue. He didn't want to simply tell Soundwave that he was beyond confused and marginally irritated that nothing else had come out of their date thus far. "No, this is lovely," he eventually lied, plastering on a coy smile for the persian. "It's a nice evening."

"Affirmative," Soundwave responded. A slight hesitation, "Tracks: would you like to continue this?"

Continue what exactly? "Of course," the pomeranian purred, pressing in tighter to the kittycon's side. "Was there something else you wished to do?"

The blue mech merely shook his helm, coming to a stop. Tracks followed suit, shuttering his optics up at the persian. "Soundwave, wha-?"

The autodog swallowed back a gasp as Soundwave unwound his arm from its resting place; grasping the thinner servo and bringing it up to his faceplates. Though the mouthguard was nothing more than an obstruction, it could not take away the meaning behind the action. Soundwave was essentially kissing his knuckles, in a most romantic and gentlemanly fashion. It made the pomeranian swoon, melt and shiver all in the same instant.

"Status: Driver shall escort you back home," the persian announced, leading a stunned Tracks to the limo that had just pulled up and was waiting for them. "Action: Must thank you for a lovely night. Your presence has made it most enjoyable."

"B-but..."

Soundwave opened the door and gently guided Tracks onto the seat within. "Fact: Will be seeing you again soon. Good night, Tracks." And then the door was shut on the pomeranian's face; both kittycon and sidewalk disappearing from sight as the limo started to drive away.

In a daze, Tracks turned away from the window, staring at his left servo where he could still feel the phantasmal kiss upon his flesh.

**xxXxXxx**

Wheeljack paced about the room, nervously winding his servos together. Finally, to the bulldog's relief, the office door opened; Ratchet coming into the room. The vet closed the door behind him silently, walking over to his desk before he paid any attention to the other mech. "Where are the twins?," Ratchet asked, trying to strike up some light conversation.

The engineer shuffled in place, then hurriedly took a seat. "T-they're with Perceptor today. He, uh, wanted to keep an eye on them. Apparently he found out about the almost 'explosion' in my lab the last time I was watching them...," Wheeljack explained, cheekplates flush with an embarrassed blush. "He wasn't happy..."

"I see," the labrador hummed, leaning back into his chair. "Wheeljack, you're probably wondering why I called for you to come see me today."

"Well, a little," the bulldog admitted. "I was sure you were gonna ream me out for tricking you into coming to the picnic yesterday but I guess not. Unless... wait, you're not trying to lull me into some semblance of security before you pounce, are you?!" Wheeljack jumped from his seat, looking at the vet worriedly.

"Would you just sit down!," Ratchet growled, annoyed by the engineer's skittishness. "I'm not going to do anything to you ...but don't tempt me..." The older autodog shifted in his chair, wrapping his vet coat around him tighter. "No, I asked you to come today to discuss Perceptor."

Wheeljack calmed down some, slowly returning to his seat. "The therapy sessions you mentioned, correct?," the bulldog asked. Ratchet nodded his helm.

"But, before we can begin that, I first need to speak with you."

The engineer lifted his helm, staring at the vet puzzled. "What do you mean, Ratchet?"

Ratchet sighed softly. "I mean, that I can not even think of treating Perceptor before treating you. His issues lie not only in the past, but whatever connection he has with you. And don't even say that's not the case- you've been with him since coming to this city, and you still protest that you're only 'friends'," the labrador interjected quickly, noticing the bulldog opening his mouth. Wheeljack promptly shut it again. "Whatever problems that Perceptor has, they cannot be solved until you first open up about the things you've been holding in all these years. Otherwise, you will only serve as a reminder to the past and Perceptor will not be able to move on."

"B-but Ratchet, I-," Wheeljack started. On his own, the engineer fell silent, gaze dropping to his clenched servos. "No, you're right..."

Ratchet rose from his chair, circling around his desk. He sat on the edge of the table, right across the other autodog; reaching out and squeezing the bulldog's shoulder tightly. At the silent comfort, Wheeljack vented wearily, shuttering his optics. "You don't have to do this right now, Wheeljack," Ratchet murmured softly.

"No, Ratchet," the engineer replied. "It's best I start now."

The vet nodded, releasing his hold on the bulldog. He sat, waiting for the other to start.

Smiling softly, Wheeljack did so. "It was the fall of my senior year when I met him..."

**xxXxXxx**

Thin fingers danced across the keyboard, rapidly hitting keys and having words and symbols flash across the screen with every click, at a speed that would awe most 'bots. It was like an art, watching those fingers move in succession like that, one after the other. The formula they were piecing together as well was something to be astounded by. Not many processors could even begin to contemplate such an equation, let alone understand the theory behind it. To the mech typing away, this was serenity. There was not a calmer place on all of Cybertron then when he was surrounded by datapads and computers, containing vorns upon vorns of different branches of mathematics and science. All wrapped up in a cocoon of peaceful silence.

_Crash!_

The fingers continued to flicker about for an astrosecond longer, before they finally came to a pause. With a slow servo, the mech adjusted his glasses, turning in his seat to assess the damage that had taken place behind him. Two, sheepish grins met his optics; kitty ears laying lowly across orange and blue helms.

"Hey mommy...," Jetfire and Jetstorm said, apologetic grins growing on their faceplates a couple inches wider.

Perceptor did not reply, instead merely looking about, trying to determine what they had broken. Noticing this, his sons eventually brought their servos out from behind their backs, displaying the damaged components of a microscope. "Sorries being," Jetfire started.

"Really, really are," his brother finished.

The border collie shuttered his optics, turning back around in his seat. "Deposit the microscope into the appropriate trash receptacle," he instructed, once again setting his servos on his keyboard. As he started up with his typing, he could hear from behind him the two hybrids moving about the room, followed by the clanking of the ruined equipment being dropped down the garbage chute. Perceptor got in another few kliks of work before two sets of arms were wrapping around his chassis.

"Yes?," the autodog asked, pulling his servos away from the keyboard.

Jetfire and Jetstorm squeezed their creator tighter, nuzzling at whichever body part was closest. "Mommy, bored are being...," the blue hybrid began. He was squatting near the floor, arms wrapped around Perceptor's middle and his chin resting on the scientist's thigh. "Doing we all of work; nothing have now left."

"Playing can go we?," the orange youngling asked. He stood just behind Perceptor, arms wrapped just under his creator's own arms and chin propped on the autodog's shoulder plating. "Please of pretty?"

Perceptor glanced at each of his sons, before his optics came to rest on his computer again. He had almost finished that new space-time formula for the Technician department downstairs... just a little more and he would have completed it. But, noticing the time displayed in the corner of the screen, the scientist concluded that he could finish writing it later. "Come," the border collie said, rising to his pedes. The twins released their hold on him, standing side by side with their creator. "The cycle dictates that it is long past the time to refuel. We shall have a short break, where in we will acquire the proper nutrition before returning to the lab. Is this action agreeable?"

"Oh, yes, yes!," the two younglings chirped, rocking on their pedes in excitement.

The scientist nodded, turning and heading for the door. He paused only long enough to remove his lab coat and replace it with his outdoor coat, already hanging on the clothes rack by the exit. His sons followed him the entire time.

"Mommy?," Jetstorm asked, as the trio were heading downstairs. "How is you knowing Ratchet, sir?"

Jetfire glanced at his brother quickly, before turning his entire attention to their creator. Perceptor's only reaction to the bizarre inquiry was the subtle lift of his helm. "Ratchet is a trusted acquaintance. He has proved his skill and dedication over the years."

The twins wanted to whine at such a mediocre answer. "Yes, but," Jetfire persisted, "How is first knowing to come of Ratchet?"

A border collie ear flicked almost unseen at the question. "He was the leading vet during your protoforming," the scientist replied.

"Ah, so is seeing us since was lil' sparklings," the younglings mused aloud. Well... that made Ratchet fairly aged then, didn't it? After all, he was older than their creator, and he had been there at their birth... Still, that fact did not squash the budding emotions welling within their sparks.

"Mommy, mommy!," Jetstorm chirped, swooping forward and latching onto Perceptor's arm tightly. He rocked the appendage back and forth as he nuzzled the scientist's ears. "Telling more of us Ratchet about. Please?"

"Ah, yes!," Jetfire added in. "Please, please, mommy? Tell of us, please?"

Perceptor glanced at each of his sons in turn. "For what purpose?," he asked monotonously. The twins looked over their creator's helm, sharing a quick discussion between them. They didn't want to lie to their mommy but they weren't sure if telling him the reason behind their interest was such a great idea. All the same, they just had to know more about Ratchet.

"We want just know him more about," they answered. "He being person important, yes? More know so thank right."

"Thanks?," the scientist replied. "Wheeljack informs me you have done such already."

"Yes, uh, well...," Jetfire hummed in distraction.

Jetstorm thankfully continued for his brother. "Is good vet he. Want thanking of him often, we do. Is deserving not, yes?"

"... Rewards are applicable," Perceptor said softly. "We shall continue discussions at a later date, when the circumstances allow." The twins let out a pleased chirp at the autodog's words. The border collie's tail twitched faintly behind him at the sound. It went unnoticed by his sons, who had skipped forward merrily, rushing for the exit and henceforth the outdoors.

The scientist watched them go, a strange, undefinable expression pulling slightly at his usually blank faceplates.

**xxXxXxx**

"Tracks...? Tracks!"

Fingers snapped irritably before the autodog's faceplates.

"Huh? Wha?," the pomeranian shuttered his optics dazedly, turning to the voice calling him. The speaker turned out to be none other than Mirage. The yorkie looked at the taller autodog anxiously, hands propped loosely on his hips.

"I've been calling your name for the past couple kliks," the blue mech said. "What's the problem? I've never seen you this distracted before..."

"Hmmm? Oh, nothing, nothing...," Tracks mumbled in response. He glanced at his half-eaten lunch, falling quiet again, before turning his attention back to Mirage. "Well, I suppose I should get going. I have another appointment tonight."

Mirage pursed his lip components at the blatant excuse, shaking his helm. "I'm surprised that you haven't chased me down earlier to gossip about your date last night. It's been the talk all over the lounge, about how you managed to catch that kittycon's attentions. Apparently, his reputation is quickly growing -same with his money."

Tracks was silent for a moment as he rose to his pedes. As if just catching what the fallen Noble had said, the pomeranian turned to the yorkie; optics clouded deep with thought. "Yes... Soundwave...," Tracks confirmed. Mirage waited, expecting the other autodog to continue.

"Well?," he finally asked, when it became obvious that Tracks was not going to finish. "Aren't you going to tell me how your date went?"

A frown made itself known on the pomeranian's faceplates. "It was... different," the taller autodog answered vaguely. Sighing, Tracks shook his helm, gathering his lunch tray. "Listen, I really do need to rush now. We can talk more later, okay?"

That was... unexpected.

Mirage shrugged nonchalantly, crossing his arms over his chassis. "Alright. I'll see you later then," he replied. The yorkie was given a quick nod before Tracks was making his way to the exit briskly. The ex-Noble's optics followed the pomeranian the entire way, confusion marring his beautiful features.

Just what had gotten into Tracks?


	8. Chapter 8

When the hybrids came in for their classes Monday morning, they noticed right away that something was off. Optimus was still smiling and being kind to them, but when Sentinel spoke, he was promptly ignored by the secretary. And it was only Sentinel, they noticed, that was getting this treatment, because Optimus was quick to respond to Jazz's greeting and chatted easily with Rodimus on the way back to his desk.

"Now, I believe we are continuing on with Language today. If you'd so kindly take out your datapads-"

"...U-uncle Optimus...," Jetstorm interrupted nervously.

"Yes, Jetstorm? Is anything the matter?"

"Umm... well..."

"I-is mad at Uncle S-sentinel you are?," Jetfire asked.

The german shepherd shuttered his optics, turning to his computer for a moment. "We are having a sort of disagreement at the moment, yes. Something that he's done which has greatly insulted me, but he is unaware of it, nor does it seem likely that he would apologize even if he was. But," he said, turning back and smiling at the younglings. "That is nothing you need concern yourself with. Just silly adult affairs. Now, let us continue with your studies."

Despite what Optimus said, Jetfire and Jetstorm were still worried. They had never seen the secretary so upset with the other autodog and their sparks pulsed in confusion. They didn't want their little family to be torn apart! With such fears filling their processors, the hybrids knew that there was no way they could possibly focus on their lessons today. Fiddling with their datapads some, the twins debated on their next course of action.

Noticing that Jetfire and Jetstorm were no longer paying attention to him, after he had already begun talking, Optimus sighed; setting aside his lesson plan. "I'm sorry," he sincerely apologized. "I didn't wish to make you worried, but it seems that's already so. I doubt we'll get much done today anyways... so is there something else you'd like to do while you're with me?"

"O-oh, yes!"

Jetfire put aside his datapad, inching closer to the german shepherd. "Uncle Optimus, is way learning to of basic medical skills?"

"Umm... well," Optimus replied slowly, thrown off by the unexpected inquiry. "There is yes. You can take a standard CPR course, which teaches you the basics of first aid, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and the Heimlich. It's usually a short course -nothing less than a week and nothing more than a month- and at the end of it you receive a license stating that you have acquired these skills. Most days, you need such a certification to get a job, especially if you're in charge of watching over a small group of 'bots. The hospitals usually offer these courses for a small fee, but I'm sure if you're interested in learning these things, we can get a vet like Ratchet to come and teach you."

The sound of the course, which had been a spur of the moment question, greatly intrigued the hybrids now; their tails set a-wagging when the autodog mentioned their favourite mech. "Uncle Optimus, knowing is Ratchet?!," they exclaimed excitedly.

"Huh? W-well, yes... Ratchet is very famous for the work he has done, and though he has the aptitude enough, refuses to be promoted to Head of the hospital," the german shepherd shared with his young students. "I believe it's because the vet enjoys working with his patients... even if he does mostly grumble about it. But in either case, yes, I know him. To most of the 'bots within this immediate area, Ratchet has been like a family physician. He already knows all our medical history and he's treated each of us over the years, so he's the one we usually go to when we need a check-up."

The twins were beaming at this revelation. "Is lucky you are," Jetfire said.

"Ratchet, sir, greatest is!," his brother purred proudly.

"Yes, yes he is," Optimus chuckled lightly; the first real smile they'd seen all orn showing up on their tutor's faceplates. "I'm guessing that Perceptor took you to meet him as well for your check-up?"

Two helms nodded back at his question. "Uncle Optimus?," they chirped, shuffling closer to the secretary. "Tell of us more, please? Wanting know we are."

The german shepherd welcomed their closeness, scratching the hybrids' behind their ears. "More?," he enquired. "You mean about Ratchet?"

"Mhmm...," came back two, pleased purrs.

Optimus smiled softly. Honestly, the twins' curiosity was so refreshing. "Well, alright. I'll tell you as much as I know," the autodog agreed, to the delight of his two charges. "But you must sit still and listen, okay?"

"Okie for dokie!" Jetfire and Jetstorm settled back into their seats, bringing legs to their chassis and hugging themselves with anticipation. Seeing that they were ready, the older mech made himself comfortable as well.

"Alright then," Optimus began. "As far as I can remember, Ratchet had always been very good at medicine. He picked up a medical datapad when he was a sparkling and was promptly fascinated... or so the nurses say. From there onwards, it wasn't hard to believe that Ratchet was going to be a vet. He studied hard in all his classes, and was accepted two years before his high school graduation into the Academy's prestigious medical program..."

**xxXxXxx**

Jazz watched as Optimus walked off, with the jettwins trailing behind him, seeming for all the world as if the german shepherd should have been stomping away. Confused, the dalmatian turned to the other security guard standing beside him. "What the slag did ya do to piss OP off?"

Sentinel stiffened at the accusation, looking at the smaller autodog with narrowed optics. "What makes you think that I'm the one at fault here?! I haven't done slag! The bornling was the one to up and decide he's gonna ignore me."

"Uh-huh...sure," Jazz replied, crossing his arms over his chassis. "And I'm to believe ya didn't provoke this response whatsoever?"

"What are you saying?," the rottweiler growled.

"Ah, gimme a break, SP," the security guard sighed in exasperation. "Ya keep doing this lil' run-around with Optimus, when it's obvious ya have a soft spot for the mech. Why do ya gotta mess things up between ya two like that?"

Shocked, Sentinel hurried to distance himself from the dalmatian; circling around the security desk and distractedly shuffling through the reports there. "You're delusional Jazz," he muttered back. "Too much time spent down in the service tunnels. Gas is glitching your processor."

Jazz quickly circled the other side of the desk, leaning over and into his superior's face. Sentinel startled at the unexpected action, leaning back with a growl. "Don't ya tell me that I'm delusional! Mech, I've been watching ya and Optimus dance around each other for the past few stellar cycles, almost afraid like, as if one of ya was about to make the wrong move. By the pit, I could feel the tension between ya two the first orn I started! Sure as slag surprised me when I found out later that ya weren't actually in a relationship of any sort..."

"Didn't your creator ever tell you things about 'not judging a book by its cover' or something?," Sentinel shot back defensively. "And why the frag does my private life have anything to do with you?!"

The dalmatian didn't know who he wanted to hit more: himself or Sentinel. Because any physical aggression towards the rottweiler would no doubt end with the security guard pummeled or out of a job (possibly even both), Jazz settled for smacking himself in the forehead. "Ya're kiddin'... please, for the love of Primus, tell me that ya're jokin'..." The black and white mech fixed the other with a stern gaze, visor flashing with his anger.

"So maybe I don't have a right to pry. Yer business is yer own," the smaller autodog agreed. "But when yer hard-helmed stubbornness threatens to destroy a life-long friendship and break two of my friends' sparks, I got a right to say something. And yes, I know that ya and Optimus are whatcha call 'childhood friends.'"

It was almost funny to watch the rottweiler's grey visage blanch further, optics flaring anxiously. Jazz was honestly curious to see how Sentinel would react. Surprisingly, the taller autodog did neither of the things the dalmatian half expected him to do; which essentially was a list involving his superior throwing a fit, hitting him or otherwise blushing and/or confirming his feelings for Optimus in another discrediting motion. What Sentinel did in fact, was the last thing the security guard would have thought the big mech capable of.

Simply put, Sentinel denied the entire conversation had just happened.

Expression going neutral once again, the rottweiler rose to his pedes, grabbing his stack of datapads. "It's time for rotation. Man the front here Jazz while I go and check the hallways. I'll relieve you for lunch half after."

Gaping, Jazz watched as his superior turned and started heading down the hall; not a word spoken in reference to the scolding he had just received from his more easy-going co-worker. "Aw... c'mon!," the dalmatian shouted, finally regaining function of his vocalizer. "Ya can't be serious? Sentinel, mech, don't be such a glitch!"

Jazz cried out in frustration as he was dutifully ignored, despite having insulted the blue mech. "Fine, whatever! Pretend like ya don't actually care! But ya better apologize to him, Sentinel! Optimus deserves that much!"

Sentinel rounded the corner, still having yet to respond to the other autodog's yelling. Huffing irritably, Jazz plopped down into the desk's chair, resigned to his post for the rest of the orn.

**xxXxXxx**

It was quiet in the lab, just as it usually was. Respectively, Wheeljack padded further into the room, doing his best not to make too much noise. All the same, his pedefalls were loud enough that the other autodog working was well aware of the engineer's entrance. "Good afternoon, Wheeljack," Perceptor spoke up. He remained glued to his screen for a few astroseconds longer, typing in the tail end of one of his numerous calculations.

Wheeljack waited patiently, understanding the delicate nature of these formulas and not wanting to risk even one variable being mistyped. Only when the border collie had finished and turned to face him did the engineer speak. "Hello Perceptor. Been keeping busy?"

Perceptor cocked his helm slightly at the bizarre question. "I have many assignments. My position as lead scientist depicts that such a heavy schedule I will have. Why do you ask?"

"Well, uh...," Wheeljack smiled wryly at the smaller mech's confusion. "Just making light conversation. How goes that work for the Space Bridge department?" He walked closer, until he was standing next to Perceptor.

"It's been finished," the border collie answered. He got up, shuffling through the stack of datapads by his console delicately. "They should begin updates on their main systems this week. My main objective now is to produce a reformatted conversion formula for the Fusion Inc. company."

"A commission, huh?," the bulldog whistled in awe. "It's not often that you get those. Usually you're just doing work for the other departments or independent projects. And for such a big company... you ever get the mech's name?"

Perceptor inclined his helm in gratitude as Wheeljack offered to take his things. Loading up the engineer's arms with his datapads and science texts, the border collie responded to his friend's inquiry. "No, but a meeting is scheduled for the next orn. He wishes to introduce himself, as well as bring in some further requests to his commission. Also, the schematics for his company's own production procedure shall be given to me then, so I may have a base to work from."

"That's a lot for you to do...," Wheeljack noted. His optics lit up with a smile, helm fins flashing in his merriment. "Aww, I'm real proud of you Perceptor! Who would have guessed that you'd accomplish so much... and only at thirty stellar cycles! Truly, you are unmatched!"

The scientist shuttered his optics behind his glasses, stalling a moment in his actions. It seemed as if he didn't know what to do with himself at the bulldog's sudden praise. After a long klik, the smaller autodog jolted back into motion, collecting a few other things before turning to the door. Wheeljack followed at his heels devotedly. "Compliments are unnecessary," Perceptor said. "It is merely my job- I do as is required of me. Various circumstances position me in a place of high demand; such a case can be easily corrected should another exceed my own limitations."

Wheeljack shook his helm behind the border collie. Perceptor always had a habit of humbling himself, even using logic as his basis. It was forever adorable and somewhat infuriating at the same time. "All the same, can we expect a nice vacation after you're done this newest project? We are getting awfully close to the twins' creation day," the bulldog pointed out. "I know they'd be ecstatic to have your undivided attention, even if it was just for a week."

Perceptor mulled it over, black ears going rigid with his contemplation. The engineer tried not to look at them too long, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the floor and his pedes, to hopefully lessen the risk of tripping foolishly. He still couldn't get those lovely appendages out of his processor though...

"Proposition valid," the scientist eventually answered. "If work proceeds uninterrupted, there shall be time enough in the schedule to allow for a small reprieve between tasks."

"Glad to hear it!" Wheeljack wagged his tail excitedly, lifting his helm again in his joy. "If there's anything you need -any assistance or the like- please don't hesitate to ask! You shouldn't have to spend longer than what is required on this formula anyways, and I'll do anything you want if it'll mean you get to take a break faster."

"Thank you," was all Perceptor said. It was enough to keep the bulldog's tail wagging for the rest of the evening.

**xxXxXxx**

"So, how was your meeting with Wheeljack?"

Ratchet looked up at his assistance, before shaking his helm and turning back to his datapad. "Gruelling...," the labrador grumbled. "I just don't understand young 'bots these days. Doing stupid, half-bolted things..."

First Aid giggled lightly, stacking his files together neatly on the older vet's desk. "Well, that's love, is it not sir? It makes everyone act a little foolishly."

The other autodog snorted, tossing his datapad onto his desk top. His assistant immediately took it, placing it neatly with its brethren. "Love. Yes, because Cybertron could use some more morons running around, gun-ho on the notion that they are madly and deeply in love... Tell me, how do you even know so much about Perceptor and Wheeljack?," Ratchet asked, eyeing the australian shepherd suspiciously.

The smaller vet merely smiled innocently. "Nurses," he answered, to the chagrin of the older mech.

"You've been hanging around with those nurses too much..."

First Aid shrugged. "All the same, sir, Wheeljack and Perceptor have been very important subjects of discussion. If not because of how well-known they are, then because of the few 'bots who still remember their first trip to this hospital. It's really such a shame that they have not bonded after all this time... even though it is more than obvious that Wheeljack loves Perceptor."

The labrador sighed, grouching further under his intakes as he rubbed at his forehead. "First Aid... make me a cup of oil, would you?," the vet asked.

"Of course, sir. Right away, sir!," the younger autodog chirped joyfully. Ratchet offlined his optics, trying to rub his impeding processor-ache down to the bare minimum, as he listened to the australian shepherd scurry to the back of the room; clicking and clanging softly as the other mech set about making his superior his requested oil. "I suppose your meeting with Wheeljack had something to do with his suppressed feelings, sir?," First Aid asked.

The vet lowered his servo, leaning back further in his chair. "I don't see how any answer on that would benefit your cause, First Aid, let alone decrease the number of rumours spewing about the hospital. And yes, I am aware of all the gossip, especially the fact that there is a betting pool going on for how long Wheeljack and Perceptor will stay as friends before one or the other does something drastic."

There was the sound of something dropping, giving away First Aid's surprise at the unexpected revelation.

"W-well, umm..."

"But if you must know," Ratchet started again, cutting off his assistant's sheepish stuttering, "Yes, I am talking to Wheeljack about his feelings. Primus knows the pup needs to speak to someone..."

Silence, except for the shuffling of the australian shepherd as he cleaned up his mess. "I'm glad to hear that, sir," First Aid replied, after a klik. The small autodog made his way back to the older vet; a skip in his step and a smile on his face. He set down the mug of hot oil and a plate of oil biscuits for the labrador. "And you are correct in what you say. It's not healthy to keep things bottled up inside for extended periods of time."

The other mech merely grunted his agreement, reaching forward and grabbing the cup. As he drank deeply, Ratchet made another grab for a lone datapad on his desk; pulling it to his face and reading the fine print on the screen. Not minding the quiet that had elapsed between them, First Aid hurried to busy himself with other tasks that needed to be done -namely, filing away the recently adjusted medical files. Taking a handful at once, the australian shepherd crossed the room again, to the line of filing cabinets situated along the length of the left wall.

"Seems like that over-eager pup Bulkhead is taking things too far again...," the vet grumbled, returning the datapad back to his desk. "That's three admittances this week alone. If he doesn't calm the frag down soon, the pup will really be in here for something serious."

Ratchet paused in his tirade to grab one of the biscuits, popping it into his mouth. "Mmmm... First Aid, these are spectacular. Where did you get them? And this mug... is this new? Such a fine make..."

"Ummm... Ratchet, sir?," the assistant said uncertainly, turning to face his superior. "Sir, those were already there on the counter when I went to get you a drink. Don't you remember? I believe they are both gifts from those two hybrids."

It was amazing that the vet didn't drop his cup in shock. "W-what...?," he choked, optics wide with growing dread. A quick glance to the back counter confirmed the australian shepherd's story. There now sat two empty boxes, their shredded wrapping paper sticking out from within the boxes' confines.

"They're really nice gifts, aren't they though?," First Aid chirped. "I mean, I don't think anyone would ever care to put so much time and effort into making me a special gift like those two did. Especially when it comes to things you like! I mean, a handsome, sturdy oil mug and a case of your favourite treats? You sure are being treated nicely, sir."

First Aid thought to say something more, but noticing the slightly confused and anxious look Ratchet wore, the assistant kept quiet; letting the secret die on the tip of his glossa with a smile. The labrador merely groaned, tossing his helm back against the helmrest of his chair.

**xxXxXxx**

"Wow... you sure work fast."

Tracks turned to the speaker of the snide comment, winking at the yorkshire terrier who was coming up to his side. "Well, of course, love," the taller autodog replied. "I do have an audience waiting." Tracks turned to the lobby windows, gesturing to the world just beyond the glass. "Can't keep them too long."

Rolling his optical sensors, Mirage shook his helm. "Only you could make the time between interfacing, changing and going out with another mech both a challenge and an honor. I retract my earlier comment -you really have no shame."

The pomeranian chuckled lightly, pulling out a tube of gloss from his jacket pocket and leaning toward the closest mirror-covered pillar by the door. "I've got better things to do," he said through pursed lip components. Applying a generous amount of the gloss, Tracks smacked his lip components once, twice, before blowing a kiss to his own reflection. Smirking at his own sexiness, he turned to face the other autodog. "You know, they really should make it a sport. Maybe then I could win some lovely trophies as well."

Mirage suppressed the sigh that rose, crossing his arms over his chestplates.

The yorkie glanced behind him quickly, but was turning around not an astrosecond after, his cheekplates lightly tinged pink. Not that Tracks noticed, as busy as the pomeranian was primping his already perfect appearance. "A-and," Mirage cleared his vocalizer anxiously, "Just what are you doing anyways?"

"Waiting for the limo."

"Waiting for the limo?"

"Yes," the multi-coloured mech elaborated. "Mr. Soundwave sends for a limo to pick me up, and drop me off back home again every date thus far."

The smaller autodog was understandably surprised. "He must be very rich... This is, what, your fifth date so far? Not many clients are known to constantly use a stretch limo as a means of transportation."

"Oh, he doesn't use it himself," Tracks said, straightening up from his intense self-scrutiny. The pomeranian patted himself down, randomly playing with his jacket's lining. "The limos are exclusively for myself. The driver just takes me to where Mr. Soundwave already is for the evening. I'm certain that the mech has his own car, to get himself around. Maybe a porsche or a bentley..."

This time, Mirage really was shocked. A limousine, just for an escort?! "And?," he asked, expecting more.

"And what?," Tracks responded back, looking equally as perplexed as the yorkie.

"What? That's it? Usually you have all sorts of things to brag about this time. The gifts he bought you, how good the interface is..." The yorkie twisted his servo whimsically as he talked. "That sort of thing."

"I do no such thing," the other autodog sniffed in disdain.

The look the ex-Noble gave him then could have froze the entirety of Iacon right then and there. Oblivious as usual, Tracks finished adjusting his collar, glancing out the window again as he did so. He was just in time to see the usual sleek, black stretch limo pull up to the condo's curb. "Ah, looks like my ride's here. Have a goodnight, 'Rajy," the pomeranian said, blowing a quick kiss to his still irate companion.

Mirage merely sighed in annoyance, before turning and walking in the opposite direction. That left Tracks to head outside by himself. The driver exited out of the vehicle at the sight of the escort, walking down to the end where the autodog would sit, and opening the door for him. They exchanged no words, the two mechs; the pomeranian slipping inside and onto the leather seats within. The driver closed the door after him, before then returning to the wheel.

It was quiet as Tracks felt the limo finally roll into motion.

He stared ahead at the small gift box sitting on the opposite seat, his servos folded neatly on his lap. After a moment, and a long hesitant pause, the pomeranian eventually moved forward and collected the box. His servos were almost trembling as he slowly undid the ribbon, easing the lid off. Inside, nestled on a satin bed, was a small crystalline figure of abstract design. It was tiny, enough to fit into his palm easily, with a glittering, blue sheen to it. The statue was beautiful, and thoughtful and...

Soundwave had given him two just like it at the start of their last two dates.

Tracks put the lid back on the box, quickly turning his optics to the window.


	9. Chapter 9

"You're weird today."

Sentinel wiped at his mouth, buttoning up his shirt. The escort said nothing, glancing back at him momentarily before continuing to get dressed. "Was your visit not satisfactory?," Tracks asked tersely, slipping on his coat.

"No...," the rottweiler growled. "You're still as slick as ever, but you almost didn't do your part. I don't want to have to stop just to remind you of your duties."

"My apologies," the other autodog replied. He grabbed his bag silently, checking his reflection quickly in his pocket mirror. "It won't happen again."

Sentinel opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted as he began to cough violently. Tracks turned to the security guard, his brow furrowed. "That sounds like a nasty cough. You sure you aren't catching a cold?," he asked.

"I...," the blue mech paused to hack again. "I-i don't get sick!," he finished. The pomeranian arched an optic ridge at the protest but merely shrugged off the rottweiler's words.

"Very well," Tracks said. "I will see you again, Mr. Sentinel. Have a good day." Sentinel watched as the escort headed out the door, no kiss blown or any other cheery remark made at his exit. For a moment, the security guard was puzzled but then he remembered he didn't care. He returned to his desk, grabbing hold of his waiting sandwich and taking a bite.

A nanoklik later, the autodog was coughing around his mouthful.

**xxXxXxx**

It was a quiet orn.

Optimus sat at his desk, without the company of his young students, taping away quickly at his console. A stack of folders sat to his right, already catalogued and their contents transferred into his computer's database. Cheery whistling broke the monotone of the german sherpherd's routine; lifting his optics, the secretary was pleasantly surprised to see Jazz swaggering down the hall. "Good afternoon, Jazz," he called.

The security guard waved jauntily, pulling up to the other autodog's desk. "What's shakin', OP?," he asked. "Free o' the kiddies today, I see."

"Yes," Optimus smiled back, "Today is their day with Perceptor. I would think they are currently in his lab at the moment, if not Wheeljack's. It's amazing how quiet things can be without them." The german shepherd paused, glancing down the hall quickly. "I-is, umm... I n-noticed that you're the only one doing your rounds today. Is someone sick?"

Jazz's visor flashed as he shuttered his optics behind it. "You mean you haven't heard yet?," he replied, stunned. At Optimus' blank look, the dalmatian sighed, his helm dropping lowly. "Sentinel's been given medical leave. Apparently he caught himself a nasty virus and has been noted as unfit for duty in the roster. We're stretching the hours, trying to cover the ones he usually has."

"He's sick?," the blue and red autodog gaped.

"Well, yeah... I'm surprised that you didn't know," Jazz repeated puzzled. "I mean, you guys are..." The dalmatian trailed off, noticing the heavy expression on Optimus' face. "Umm, Optimus?"

"Huh? Oh," the german sherperd shook his helm, coming out of his thoughts. "No, it's nothing. I was just thinking. I'm sorry to hear that you have so much to do now, Jazz."

"Meh, it's nothin' my mech," the black and white mech said, waving off the other autodog's words. "It's jus' a couple cycles more." Optimus nodded but didn't say anything else. Jazz studied his friend for a moment, his lip components pulled in a slight frown. Smacking the desk top suddenly, he grinned broadly at the startled autodog.

"Well, I guess I'll just split," the dalmatian chirped. "See you later, OP!"

The secretary responded slowly, waving at the security guard as he bounced off to finish his rounds. When his friend was out of sight, Optimus lowered his servo, sighing quietly in the absence of others.

**xxXxXxx**

It had taken much deliberation, but at the end of the orn, he realized he just couldn't walk away.

Optimus stood before Sentinel's apartment door, a steaming bowl of rust-bolt stew balanced precariously in his arms. He had one servo wrapped about the porcelain to keep it steady, and the other raised to the door. For the umpteenth time in the past couple kliks, the autodog sighed, letting his servo drop back down to his side. His ears were drooped uneasily, his tail stiff behind him. He just couldn't do this, the mech bemoaned to himself. This was Sentinel- even with their history, it seemed unlikely that his old friend would want or accept his help. Actually, it was because of their shared past that the rottweiler may very well refuse the secretary's charity.

But he couldn't just leave either.

"Oh, just do it you idiot," Optimus hissed to himself, raising his servo again. He held it waveringly before the door, feeling his nerves grow taut the longer he hesitated on knocking. Throwing caution to the wind, the german shepherd quickly tapped the wood; suddenly, fear overcame him and he scrambled with what to do next.

The thought of fleeing actually entered his processor...

"W-who," wild coughing came through the door, "H-hoo's bhere?"

Optimus swallowed the squeak that rose as the door swung open, a disgruntled Sentinel meeting his gaze. His fright vanished quickly though when he saw the state his ex-friend was in. Dressed in a ratty house-coat, the security guard was stooped over with sickness; his optics purple around the edges and his grey visage a pale, greenish colour. A wad off used tissue was held in one servo, the other keeping the blue mech steady as he leaned heavily against the door frame.

"Sentinel...," the german shepherd sighed sympathetically.

"O-ob'imus?," Sentinel croaked in surprise. He straightened up quickly, before folding over again. Apparently the rapid motion sent his processor whirling. "Whab ar-are eoo do-dooven here?"

The secretary lifted his bowl of stew. "Soup," he mumbled nervously. "I heard you were sick a-and, well, I thought you might need a little something to, umm..."

The sick mech's optics narrowed suspiciously. "W-why do e-eoo c-care?"

Optimus shuttered his optics stupidly, before a frown came to his lip components. "Well, of all the- c'mon, Sentinel," he huffed, stepping past the threshold. He took hold of the stunned rottweiler's elbow with his one servo, leading the other back into the apartment. "You should be in bed."

"Ob'imus, 'ow d-dare eou-!" Anything else the blue mech had to say was lost in another coughing fit; the security guard weakening further, allowing himself to be taken back to his berth. He let Optimus push him under the blankets, scowling sullenly as the german shepherd tucked the sheets in tightly around his shivering frame.

"Sentinel...," the secretary sighed a third time that cycle. "How did you ever get so sick? You really need to take better take care of yourself."

"Ah-"

Optimus silenced Sentinel by setting a finger to the other autodog's mouth. "Stay put," he ordered, grabbing his bowl. "I'll be right back." He waited an astrosecond, to see if the rottweiler would disobey him, before nodding and marching out of the room.

When the red and blue mech had left the room, Sentinel attempted to try and get up. He barely managed to sit up before his tanks roiled uneasily, his processor stabbed over and over again by an invisible blade that he just couldn't defend against. He collapsed back against the mattress, just as Optimus came strutting into the room. "I told you to 'stay put'," the german shepherd said wearily.

He circled around the berth, setting the basin of cold water he carried onto the nightstand. Dipping his servos into it, he grabbed the wash clothe, ringing it out. "Just rest Sentinel. I won't choke you in your sleep or anything -promise," Optimus assured Sentinel.

"D-don' 'now bhat," the security guard grumbled nasally.

The thinner autodog said nothing, simply patting his friend's slicked forehead. "Go to sleep," he repeated. "I'll have something for you to eat when you wake."

**xxXxXxx**

_Sunlight poured down on a grassy hill, covered in dandelions and other small wild flowers. The sky was above was a vivid blue, with a few white, puffy clouds dotting its canvas; the perfect backdrop to the sparklings playing beneath it. The little ones themselves did not notice the beauty of the world around them this day, fixated on their own games and each other._

_One blue sparkling was using the edge of his wooden sword to cut up servofuls of dandelions, passing them to the other two autodogs behind him. The yellow femme thanked him for his deed, before turning to her third companion and splitting the pile between them. Her friend smiled graciously, grabbing a few of the dandelions and beginning to weave them into a chain._

"_Heesh," the first one grumbled, kicking at the grass. "'Ow many flow'rs do ya need Elita?"_

"_As many as it takes," the other sparkling replied cheerfully. "Don't be such a meanie, Sentinel. Optimus likes making the crowns. Don't you, Optimus?"_

_The red and blue mech lifted his helm at the question, nodding. "Y-yes, Elita," he mumbled softly. He glanced up at Sentinel, smiling at his friend. "I-it's ok, S-sentinel. You can stop now."_

_The rottweiler plopped down with an exaggerated sigh, sticking his sword deep into the dirt. "'is 'bout time!," he huffed. Elita One rolled her optical sensors, while Optimus merely chuckled quietly._

"_You can help, you know," the femme pointed out, gesturing to the pile of dandelions still waiting to be braided._

_The blue sparkling's ear jolted upright in horror. "No way!," he protested. "'at's girly stuff! Only bornlings do 'at silly s'uff!"_

_The german shepherd shuttered his optics, hurt. "Y-you think I'm a bornling, Sen-Sen?," the smallest autodog wibbled._

_Elita One glared at the shell-shocked Sentinel. "Stop picking on, Optimus!," she scowled, hitting the the mech. Sentinel responded by quickly raising his shield._

"_I'm not picking on 'im!," he argued._

"_You are!"_

"_Am not!"_

"_Are too!"_

"_Are not!"_

"_Are too!"_

"_Are n-"_

"_Here you go, Sen-Sen," Optimus interrupted. He got to his feet, setting his newly made dandelion crown upon his friend's helm. The rottweiler's tail thumped slowly behind him, his cheekplates tinged faintly pink, despite the pout he wore. The femme beside him laughed outright, tossing her own make-shift crown about the blue and red sparkling's ears._

"_There! Now you're both princes," she grinned. "And I can be the princess."_

"_I'm no prince," Sentinel said, rising to his pedes quickly. He grabbed his sword and shield, holding them up as he puffed out his chest proudly. "I am a kni'te! I'll proteck you all."_

_The other two sparklings giggled in delight, clapping loudly for their friend. Leaping forward, Elita One wrapped her arms tightly around Optimus and Sentinel both, drawing them in for a big hug. "We'll be the bestest friends forever!," she exclaimed. The autodogs wagged their tails in agreement._

**xxXxXxx**

"...oo're s'ill 'ere?," came the mumbled inquiry.

Optimus sighed, walking towards the berth. "Of course, Sentinel," he answered, grabbing the thermometer from the other mech's mouth. He lifted the stick to his optics, reading the small digits etched into the side of the glass scale. "Good," he smiled after a moment, "It looks like the worse of your fever has broken."

Sentinel shifted on the berth, sullenly glaring up at the german shepherd. "I still feel like slag...," he grumbled.

"Well, you're not better yet," Optimus agreed. "You'll need some more rest and proper fluids before the virus is fully gone. Which is why I've brought you some soup -do you think you can sit up?"

The rottweiler tried to comply with the polite request, but could not muster the strength to even lift himself up a few inches. Giving in with a heavy grunt, the blue mech fell back against the berth and the pillows; glaring sullenly up at the ceiling. "I hate this...," he hissed lowly.

"I know," Optimus was tempted to say. He silenced the comment though, fixing the blankets around the security guard's frame. Even though it had been stellar cycles since they had actively communicated in a semi-civilized nature, the german shepherd recalled firmly how much his ex-friend hated being ill. The feeling of helplessness, of constant dependency -towards anyone!- irritated the other autodog, who had always believed since he was young that he was strong and powerful when compared to others.

...Sentinel did love playing the part of a knight...

The secretary seated himself on the edge of the berth, grabbing the bowl of soup he had set aside. He stirred the broth once, twice, before turning to face the other mech. "Open, please," he asked politely, lifting a spoonful of the warm liquid and waiting for Sentinel to comply. Sentinel only pouted further, pulling his blankets up to his chin. "Don't be so stubborn, Sentinel," Optimus huffed exasperatedly.

"...no," was the rottweiler's eloquent reply.

"Sentinel-"

"No," the mech cut in.

The german shepherd said nothing, moving the spoon so that it hovered just above Sentinel's lower lip component. "You haven't eaten a thing since the day before because of your fever getting worse. Right now, you need to replenish your systems with the necessary nutrients."

Sentinel still refused to open his mouth.

"Sentinel, please," Optimus almost begged. Slaggit... he was tired and hungry himself. Looking after an over-sized, sick sparkling wasn't exactly the easiest of tasks. All he wanted to do was make sure that the security guard got something to eat and drink, before he went back home for the night. The other autodog resisted for about a nanoklik longer, before he opened his mouth, snapping his denta about the spoon's neck.

The german shepherd sighed gratefully, reclaiming his spoon. "Thank you," he said, spooning some more soup for his ex-friend. He silently fed the rottweiler, glad for his compliance, even if it was somewhat half-sparked. This relative peace lasted about a breem, before Optimus had to break the tense silence that surrounded them.

"I found your school yearbook the other day," he started softly. He dropped his optics to the bowl in his lap, stirring the last dregs of the soup distractedly. "I was surprised that you still had it..."

Smiling a little, the red and blue autodog continued, "Remember when we were smaller, and we used to play all the time? You were the knight and Elita One and I were-"

"...don't talk about her..."

The low growl startled Optimus. He lifted his helm, ears rigid. "Sentinel, w-what-"

Sentinel glared at him, shifting on the berth. He attempted to sit up again; his denta bared threateningly. "I said don't talk about _her_."

Optimus felt his fear and unease drain away, quickly replaced by anger. "Why not?," he demanded. "She was our friend Sentinel- despite everything that's happened, she always will be to me! Why then can't I mention her?"

"She's not our friend; she never was!," the rottweiler snapped. "She was nothing but a no-good, dirty little half-br-"

The secretary jumped to his pedes, turning away from the other autodog. "Optimus!," Sentinel yelled, lurching up. He grabbed the fleeing mech's wrist, keeping Optimus from running away. "Don't you dare leave!" Optimus glared at the blue autodog, before viciously shaking off Sentinel's grip.

"Optimus, get back here!," the security guard demanded, struggling in the berth. If he had the strength, he would have been hot at the german sherpherd's heels. As it was, he could only listen as his bowl of unfinished soup was thrown into the kitchen sink, followed by the slamming of the front door as his ex-friend stormed out. Growling in annoyance, Sentinel fell back against his pillows, shooting daggers at the ceiling above, as if it was to blame for all his problems.

**xxXxXxx**

He honestly didn't know why he had gone.

Sentinel never changed, it was a fact. The person that he had once considered a friend had been just as rude and uncouth since the time they were in middle school together. Any trace of the sparkling that the rottweiler used to be had been permanently erased from this world.

Optimus wished he could say he still did not cry over that sometimes...

Why? Why did he have to lose the only two people that had ever meant anything to him in the world, he had to wonder. It wasn't _fair_.

He slammed his door behind him as he entered his house, a servo lifted to his face as he hurried for his room. He was glad to hear that all was silent within the place -it meant that his foster son, Bumblebee, was out at the moment. He did not want to worry the yellow youngling with his tears. Once he was holed up tight in his room, his last resolve crumpled; he sat on the edge, burying his face into his servos. He cried quietly for about five kliks, before he could cry no more, and sat up straight. He wiped at his optics, taking deep, long intakes to calm himself down again.

"I'm such a fool," he mumbled to himself wearily. "Such a fool..."

What had he expected really? Taking care of Sentinel... it was sure to bring up some tension between them. But he had not anticipated his old friend getting so vicious for mentioning their long lost companion.

Elita One... orns so long ago, the three of them had been friends. Playing together, eating lunch and sharing secrets and joys with each other. That was before the disaster that had torn their friendship to shreds. In the ignorance of their youth, they never noticed the differences in the yellow femme. In fact, neither did the older 'bots watching over them. It wasn't until a stellar cycle had passed, that the teachers and parents took notice of the odd inconsistencies of the sparkling's background. Unknownst to many, Elita One was actually a half-breed; her carrier, who had been an autodog, had a short relationship with a kittycon, before it was terminated by her own creators. They had not known at the time that the young femme was pregnant. She stole off into the dead of night, taking her and her unborn sparkling away from the ones who would have her terminate the unprotoformed bornling.

The child she had was Elita One. She passed off the sparkling as being full autodog, like herself, and for a while the ploy was plausible. But as the stellar cycles passed, the sparkling's CNA began to show signs of her kittycon heritage. Her small puppy ears sharpened into familiar cat points, destroying the illusion that she was a chihuahua breed, just like her carrier. This fact was discovered one school orn, while Optimus, Sentinel and Elita One were outdoors playing. Optimus remembered how terrifying it was, when his classroom teacher and principal swooped down on the trio; grabbing hold of the tiny femme and wrenching her away from her friends.

The two autodogs tried to leap to their pedes and save their friend, but their teacher held each of them back, saying that they weren't to interfere in adult affairs. No matter how much they cried and fought, they were unable to get free, and could only watch in horror as Elita One was taken from their sights.

They were never to see the hybrid again, they were told.

But they had, Optimus remembered. It was by chance really, that after nine stellar cycles they would meet their long lost friend. Sentinel and Optimus were just starting high school... they were heading home after their first day, chatting calmly enough about their classes and plans for the semester. The german shepherd paused to look forward as they were crossing the street, when he spotted her. He almost didn't believe at first that it was Elita One. Her fur had changed from its rich, gentle yellow to a nasty, bright purple; her thin autodog tail not to be seen anywhere.

Needing clarification, Optimus had run towards the oddly-coloured femme, ignoring both Sentinel's yelling and the group of thuggish kittycons surrounding her. "Elita?!," he called out desperately, his spark pulsing hopefully in his chassis.

The feline ears flickered atop her helm; slowly, the femme turned about, her red optics burning into his. "Whose the mutt?," one of the kittycons cracked. "Probably a stray," another added. The group crowed with laughter at the cruel joke. Optimus did his best not to look at them, giving his attention only to the 'bot before him.

She said nothing at first, crossing her leather-clad arms across her chestplates. "Hey, want us to teach this lil' pup a lesson?," one of the brutes asked, wrapping an arm around the femme's shoulder plates.

"Go on ahead," she told him, "I can deal with this one on my own."

The kittycons exchanged some looks, but shrugged and began to walk away. "Elita...," Optimus sighed, when the group was out of hearing range. "Elita, I'm so glad that you're alright!" He went to go hug his old friend, but was stopped when her fist came flying.

He fell to the ground from that punch to the jaw, processor reeling in shock and confusion. "You damn glitch!," Sentinel shouted, coming up to the duo.

"Ah, Sentinel...," the femme sneered, propping her servos on her hips casually. "I should have known you wouldn't be too far away."

"Elita...?," he mumbled, confused.

"The name is Blackarachnia now," she hissed, baring her denta. "That pathetic lil' mutt you knew as Elita One no longer exists."

"B-but El-Blackarachnia," Optimus stammered, struggling to his pedes. Sentinel's strong servos grasped his elbows gently, helping him up. "W-we're your friends!"

"Some friends you are," Blackarachnia growled. "It was because of you that I was forced out of my home and lost the only life I had! Where were you when I had no choice but to chop off my tail?! Where were you when my mother died, and the only ones who would even dare look at me were the same 'bots you mutts were told to hate?! No... no autodog is my friend, and certainly not you either!"

"B-but Elita-!"

The hybrid reacted, lashing out quickly and kicking Optimus square in the chestplates. He fell against Sentinel, gasping for air. "You slagger... I'll fragging tear you limb from limb!," the rottweiler roared.

Blackarachnia hissed at the threat. "Try it, you mudflap," she said to Sentinel. Her cold optics turned to Optimus then. "Don't ever call me that again. If you so much as try to look for me, Optimus, I will kill you. Don't doubt for even an astrosecond that I won't."

The femme spat at the ground between them, turning on her heel and quickly strutting away. The german shepherd hurried to his pedes, struggling in Sentinel's grasp. "L-let me go, Sentinel!," he demanded, his face turned in the direction that Blackarachnia had disappeared in. "Please, we have to stop her!"

"Leave her be, Optimus," his friend growled. "She doesn't want anything to do with us obviously, and I refuse to let her hurt you again."

"But she's our friend! We can't just let her go, Sentinel- we have to show her that she's wrong!"

"Wrong?!," Sentinel shouted, spinning Optimus around. "Wrong about what?," he demanded. "Slaggit... we're not responsible for anything that's happened to her Optimus! She's the one who hates us! Why should we chase after some beaten-up, twisted, no-good, dirty little half-breed of a gli-"

Optimus couldn't help what he did next.

He slapped Sentinel.

The rottweiler lifted a servo to his cheekplate slowly, his optics staring in wide disbelief at the smaller mech. His shock lasted about a nanoklik, before Sentinel's gaze hardened and his lip components bent in a ferocious scowl. "I see...," he mumbled. "Okay, fine. Do whatever you want; just don't expect me to follow along anymore."

He turned about quickly, storming away from the torn german shepherd. If Optimus had known then that this incident would have cost him his whole friendship with the only important person left in his young life, then he would have chased after Sentinel that night instead of trying to find Blackarachnia again. In the end though, all he had was two sore pedes and a bucketful of tears to show for his efforts.

Society's ignorance and bigotry had cost him his first friend...

...But he had lost the second with his own mistakes...

**xxXxXxx**

"Y-you... you came back?"

Sentinel shuffled out of the doorway as Optimus walked in, the german shepherd's ears rigid on top of his helm. He took one look at the mess the rottweiler had made in the kitchen, before sighing and hurrying forwards to clean it up.

The security guard followed closely at his heels. "Why did you come back?," he asked, confused. "I was sure after yesterday..."

"Someone has to make sure you don't poison yourself," the secretary finally replied, throwing the dirty dishes into the sink. He turned off the stove top, chucking the gelatinous, burning mound that might have once been soup into the trash. Behind him, Sentinel watched, leaning against the counter as a wave of sudden fatigue ran through him.

"No, really," he demanded, fixing Optimus with a stern look. "Why are you even bothering to look after me, if you only hate me?"

Optimus locked optics with Sentinel. "You are an idiot if you think I hate you," the german shepherd said dryly.

The blue mech opened his mouth, about to retort, but couldn't find the words to speak with. He huffed in annoyance, slouching down onto the counter further. The other autodog spared a moment to plug the sink, turning on the taps, before walking around and grabbing hold of the rottweiler. "You should be in bed," he instructed, beginning to lead the security guard in that very direction.

Sentinel allowed himself to be taken back to his room and tucked back under the sheets. "I'm not that sick," he gruffed half-heartedly. Optimus said nothing, grabbing the thermometer from off the dresser and holding it out towards the rottweiler.

"Put that in your mouth," he ordered. He waited until the thermometer was in Sentinel's mouth, the tip under his glossa, before leaving the berthroom. There came the squeak of taps turning off, and the fridge being opened and closed, after which the german shepherd came walking back into the room. The blue mech did his best to keep his tail from wagging when the other autodog leaned in to grab the thermometer.

"...your temperature has gone down a lot," Optimus remarked. He handed Sentinel the glass of low-grade he held. "Another night's rest should do it, and you'll be able to return to work tomorrow." Even if he didn't say it, the relief was obvious in his optics.

He stood there idly, debating.

"What's wrong, Optimus? You look as if you want to say something."

The secretary frowned slightly, turning his attention back to Sentinel at the somewhat mocking tone. "I'll go get you something to eat," he told the rottweiler. "Stay put."

Sentinel tried not to scowl as his ex-friend marched back out of the room, without a farewell or word of warning said otherwise. He stayed in the berth almost one full klik, before he got up himself, walking into the main area of his apartment. "I suppose I should thank you if I'm almost better, as you say," he began, startling the german shepherd.

Optimus fumbled with his dish he was holding, catching it and putting it back in the sink with the others. "Sentinel," he replied tersely. "I told you to stay in bed."

The blue mech said nothing for a moment, merely studying the other. He noticed that his silent staring began to make the red and blue autodog squirm after a few astroseconds. "I have to say, Optimus," he smirked, "You're pretty rattled today, aren't you? I wonder why..."

The secretary's cheekplates flushed with his embarrassment. He hurriedly turned away from Sentinel, returning to the dishes he had been previously washing. "Your soup is just heating up on the stove. I'll have some brought for you shortly -now if you'd be so kind as to stop pestering me so I can finish cleaning up, please."

"But I'm not pestering," the rottweiler argued, sidling up to the german shepherd's side. He caught the tremble Optimus tried to suppress. "In fact, I think this is a perfect opportunity."

"What...," Optimus began warily, slowly putting down his scrubby, "Opportunity?"

He didn't like that angry, almost fearful look the shorter autodog gave him. Sentinel frowned, facing his ex-friend entirely. "You can't tell me that you're here simply because you have to take care of me. I don't believe that. You must have some other reasons for coming here -frag, you were giving me the silent treatment not a week before! And I still don't understand what the slag I did to have you so steamed at me."

Bitter hurt filled Optimus' optics. "If you still haven't figured it out by now, then why should I tell you Sentinel?," he demanded. "I've never before been so insulted and disgusted in my life."

"...so that's it then," the rottweiler muttered. "Now that you're done playing nurse maid, we're just going to go back to you ignoring me and me being left in the dark as to why you're so miffed? Why did you even bother coming here then Optimus? It makes no sense!"

"I have to have a reason now to be concerned about someone?," Optimus shouted back, losing his patience. "Is that it Sentinel? Is that what you're telling me?"

"Yes!," Sentinel yelled. Optimus shuttered his optics before throwing his scrubby back into the soapy water, turning around and storming for the door. "Slaggit... Optimus, don't you dare run away again!"

The security guard quickly chased after the german shepherd, pinning him to the wall. "Let me go!," the red and blue autodog growled, struggling in the other mech's hold.

"Why? So you can leave again, like you did last night! Slag no!," Sentinel replied. "I don't get you Optimus- if I slag you off so much, why do you keep on coming back!? Well? Answer me!"

The secretary bit his lip component, lowering his helm. The rottweiler tolerated this for about an astrosecond, before he bent forward, swooping in and sealing his lip components against the other mech's mouth. Optimus made a strangled sound in the back of his vocalizer as he was forcibly kissed by his ex-friend; Sentinel's leg pushing between his thighs. Panic flashed through the smaller autodog. In a great burst of strength, he broke out of the security guard's grasp, shoving the sick 'bot to the floor. Not wasting a single moment, Optimus grabbed his coat and ran out the apartment door.

Sentinel, hissing as he pushed himself up on the ground, could only turn his helm to the open door; cursing himself again.


	10. Chapter 10

"Just this way, sir," the heavy-set secretary gestured, holding the door open for the autodog. Perceptor inclined his helm in polite gratitude, before entering into the boardroom. At the moment it was empty; no other 'bots were there. Turning, he looked back at the kittycon, expecting an explanation of sorts. "Mr. Megatron shall be along shortly," the cougar told him. "He said to say that you might take a seat while he does his best to get here. He is at the moment just in another meeting."

The border collie inclined his helm once more, turning about and quietly sliding out the nearest chair. He sat down, setting his datapads and files onto the table. The secretary left to attend to her own business, leaving the door slightly ajar when she went. At first, Perceptor did not notice, until sounds from outside in the hallway began to echo into the boardroom. The scientist rose to his pedes, intent on closing the door and waiting for his commissioner to arrive in relative quiet, but he never got the chance.

Words, suddenly a lot more sharper and clearer, met the autodog's ears. "You're always busy," hissed a horribly familiar voice. "When are you going to come home? You have other obligations outside of this silly company of yours!"

Perceptor watched, transfixed, as two mechs rounded the corner. A larger, grey kittycon turned to the shorter magenta one at his side, an irritated frown fixed on his faceplates. "I'll be home tonight for dinner Starscream," grumbled the tabby. "Now, if you don't mind I have an appointment with someone right now."

Starscream!?

The autodog backed away from the door quickly, terror breaking through the veil of his apathy; a trickle of other, darker emotions following its predecessor. His servos were trembling as he hugged himself, folding over as a wave of nausea hit him. He couldn't quite quell the whimper that came after.

Why... why was he here?

_'No...' _Perceptor choked at the rise of unwanted memories. Things that he had not thought about for stellar cycles. _'N-no... go away...'_ He struggled to push them back, feeling his strength and resolve diminish the longer he fought. Only the sound of approaching pede-steps reminded him of where he was; what he couldn't afford to be at this moment. With a vicious shove, the border collie buried everything again, his frame racked by trembles still.

They would not stay hidden for long though, and he knew his hastily built walls would break on him.

But for now, he was becoming numb once more, and that was all that mattered.

**xxXxXxx**

For the first time in his life, Soundwave was wondering if he had done something wrong. He sat in his office at the Nemesis, the muted chatter of the cleaning crew straightening up for tonight's opening drifting up to the booth from down below. He had Tracks' file open before him, his servos clasped on his stomach plating as he reclined back in his seat. The kittycon had thought that everything was going well...

He'd bought Tracks for the evening at least once a week, sometimes twice, taking the autodog to various locations that he had thought the pampered pomeranian might enjoy. Indeed, the multi-coloured mech seemed to enjoy the dinners and trips to the theatres well enough in the beginning, but he had been getting quite quiet and almost subdued during their latest dates. Maybe the persian was wrong in thinking that Tracks might actually have felt something toward him. The autodog's files already showed that the other mech had yet to be in a serious, long-term relationship.

Soundwave frowned behind his mask, releasing a low intake as he closed the folder.

The kittycon himself had at least been in a couple relationships in the past; ending them when he discovered that his partners were not what he wanted. It had been a while since he had last decided to pursue one but he felt it deep in his circuitry that Tracks was 'The One'. That's why he was so disturbed by the lack of response he was receiving from the pomeranian. Did Tracks only view him as a job, or perhaps, something more...?

The lingering question haunted him.

Tomorrow, the blue mech decided, he would find out tomorrow when he picked up Tracks for their date.

**xxXxXxx**

What a day to be back at work.

Sentinel grumbled, rubbing at his forehead to try and curb the oncoming processor ache that he could feel coming. He tried to focus on the reports in front of him, but he just couldn't make sense of the words. It was all gibberish to his poor helm, the squiggles leaping around tauntingly. They were making fun of him, all of them. If he dared to even lift his optics from the desk though, his attention would be drawn to the monitors and then he'd see Optimus, being the diligent little goody-two shoes as he usually was. The rottweiler couldn't stand to see the other autodog at this moment.

He'd spent a week in the berth, being tended by the caring secretary, but just when Sentinel thought that things might change between them... well, he went and opened his big mouth again.

Growling at himself angrily, the security guard pushed away the reports he was supposed to read, slamming his helm onto the desk top.

"That looked painful."

The autodog stiffened at the unexpected comment, whirling around to face the speaker. Tracks stood in the doorway, optic ridge lifted curiously as he stared at the blue mech. "What are you doing here?," Sentinel demanded.

The pomeranian smiled at him, though it seemed somewhat forced, sashaying towards the security guard. "I'm here for our appointment obviously," came the simple reply.

_Slag._

Sentinel had all but forgot about his weekly appointments with the escort. He'd after all been a little bit more preoccupied with being sick and having his ex-friend be his self-appointed nurse. He stared at the floor between his pedes, his lip components fixed into a scowl as Tracks set his coat and purse to the side. The rottweiler was almost surprised when the multi-coloured autodog slid into view, sinking onto his knees and his fingers inching to the other's zipper. "Shall we get started?," the pomeranian asked silkily.

Servos curling about the arms of his chair, the security guard growled irritably, grabbing Tracks' servos and pulling them away from his lap. "Listen...," he vented lowly.

"Is there something wrong?," Tracks asked. "If you want to only use my valve, that is okay by me. I promise that I won't forget my duties anymore. Let me satisfy you sir, while you think of your darling Optimus."

"Just -no!," Sentinel snapped, shoving the slimmer autodog away entirely. Tracks made a sound of shock at the unexpected action, never once before having his advances rejected by his clients. He watched the rottweiler warily as he got back on his pedes, frowning at the bigger mech. Sentinel was pacing back and forth now, his arms crossed over his chestplates as he grumbled quietly to himself.

"Listen," he said, finally turning to the pomeranian. "I'm, uh... too busy today. I can't waste time on our appointment. In fact, I'm not sure if I'll have the time to enjoy your services for the next little while, so... keep today's pay, I don't care. But I don't need you."

Tracks was understandably stunned. "...sir?," he started uncertainly. Had he really just been told that he wasn't wanted anymore?

"Look, would you just-!" Sentinel stopped, reigning in his anger before he lashed out at the other autodog. Shoulders slumped, he walked stiffly for his desk, grabbing the escort's things and tossing them at him. To his credit, Tracks managed to catch the items, though he almost fumbled his purse at the poor throw. He held them close to his chassis, his optics still wide and slightly bewildered behind his glasses.

Sentinel snorted quietly, dropping back into his chair and grabbing his reports. "You can go now. I've got work to do," he said dismissively, turning away from the escort. "Some big-shot kittycon CEO with a communications network is coming today for an appointment with the mayor," he growled lowly to himself. "And now I'm stuck working the hours and ensuring that there are guards around so no sneaky business happens on my watch..."

"C-communications network?!," came a quiet squeak.

The rottweiler turned back around in his seat, frowning at the other autodog still standing with his things clutched to his chestplates. Tracks had that wide, disbelieving look on his face, though it was much more paler and anxious now. "You're still here?," Sentinel barked, annoyed that the pomeranian hadn't left yet.

"I-i, I'm going!," Tracks stammered, turning on his pede and almost running for the door.

Sentinel shuttered his optics at the unexpected response, but shrugged and once more turned back to his work.

Soundwave was going to be here?!

Tracks hurried from the security office, not noticing the dalmatian that he ran past in his haste to leave. He fumbled with his coat and purse as he jogged quickly, slipping his jacket on and clutching the bag tightly in his growing panic. He couldn't have the kittycon find him here! Not when he'd just been about to interface with Sentinel! If Soundwave knew of his other clients, the things he did with them...

The pomeranian slowed for a moment, feeling suddenly ill to his fuel tanks. For a very scary moment, he thought he would purge. Shaking the feeling off, Tracks quickened his pace again, heading down the hallway and to the main lobby. He had to get out of here before the persian came. Had to be far away before Soundwave found out-

"Status: here for an appointment with the mayor."

Tracks skidded to a stop as he rounded the corner, seeing the very kittycon he was just thinking about standing right there at the front desk, talking to the young autodog guard. Quickly, the pomeranian ran back out of sight, praying to any deity that might listen that Soundwave hadn't seen him. "Ah, yes," he heard the autodog say, "Mr. Soundwave, sir. The mayor's just down the hallway to your right there. Very end of the corridor."

The right?! Tracks was currently in the right-wing hallway!

Panicking now, the autodog turned and bolted down the way he had just come, helm whipping about wildly. There had to be a washroom, an office- slag, even a fire exit would do!- around here somewhere! Anything would suffice, just as long as he was well out of hearing range and sight of the persian. "Come on, come on," Tracks muttered to himself as he rushed for the nearest door. He tugged on the handle, but it was locked. "Slag!"

He couldn't be seen by Soundwave! Not now, not like this. He'd-

"Tracks?" The unexpected call of his name was like a saving grace to the pomeranian. He turned quickly to the speaker, seeing Rodimus coming out of an office just down a little further along the hallway. "What are you-"

The escort didn't allow the younger mech a chance to speak. Tracks flat out ran across the hallway, shoving Rodimus and himself into the room; shutting the door behind them, just as he heard Soundwave round the bend. Locking the door for extra measure, the multi-coloured mech quickly crossed the room, wrapping his arms around his trembling frame as he tried to catch his breath. Rodimus hissed lightly as he rubbed at his chestplates, sore now from where Tracks had slammed his servos into the plating. Turning to face the older autodog, he gave Tracks the chance to calm down some, before voicing his concerns.

"What's with you?," he demanded, perhaps a little harshly. Considering he had almost been body-checked into a room, the golden retriever felt his ire was justified. "Why were you running about the hallways like a mad fool for?"

"N-no... no reason," the escort replied slowly. He sighed, leaning against the wall heavily as all of his panic and adrenaline drained from his frame. "You -you are an angel, really. Perfect timing, if I may say so."

Rodimus only frowned further. "Who were you running from?"

Tracks onlined an optic, fixing his attention on the lawyer. "You cut to the chase, don't you?"

"Don't avoid the question," the red mech replied. "You were running from someone. If there's an issue of personal safety involved, it's my duty to make sure that it is reported to the police."

The pomeranian smiled wryly, shaking his helm and slowly pushing himself off the wall. "You really don't have to worry, darling. It's none of your concern," Tracks said, walking towards the door. Rodimus moved to block his path. Seeing that he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon without a decent explanation, the multi-coloured mech sighed, slinging his purse over one shoulder.

"Listen," he told the younger autodog, "It's nothing serious, really. I just don't like to run into my clients when I'm out in the field, tending to other ones. Capiche?"

Though somewhat unwanted information, it was enough to get Rodimus' to step away from the door. "Fair enough," he sighed. "Next time though, I'd prefer if you didn't slam into me."

"Of course, love," Tracks chuckled back good-naturedly. The taller autodog became a little quiet though as he reached for the door, turning the lock slowly. The hinges creaked slightly as he inched the door open, peering out into the hallway cautiously. There was no one there though, and Tracks felt some of his trepidation fade away again.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, looking over a shoulder to the golden retriever. "I owe you one."

Rodimus shrugged, crossing his arms over his chestplates. "Considering our history," he replied, "Let's just call this one even."

The pomeranian nodded, smiling gratefully at the young lawyer, before hurrying out into the hall. He wasted no time, making his way to the front of the building quickly and freedom.

**xxXxXxx**

Jazz didn't know whether to be disgusted or appalled. He watched as the pomeranian ran right past him, not noticing him one bit in his hurry, feeling a growl rise in his throat. The inexplicable anger he felt towards the other autodog was unwarranted -he knew that he wasn't really angry at the escort. He was after all just doing his "job". But now, everything suddenly made sense, and the dalmatian was furious.

"Ya slagging moron!," he hissed, turning into the security office. Sentinel jumped in his seat, whirling around and facing his subordinate.

"Jazz?!," the rottweiler gaped in confusion. That was quick to change to irritation. "What the slag is your problem now?"

"My problem? MY problem?!," the black and white mech shouted. "I thought ya were a decent mech, I really did SP. Maybe a little too egotistic an' whatnot, but I never thought ya'd sink this low. No wonder Optimus is upset with ya -he probably saw the same sick slag ya were up to!"

Sentinel backed in his chair uneasily as the dalmatian marched towards him, huffing and puffing wildly. "Just what are you talking about?," he demanded, his processor still reeling from the suddenness of the smaller autodog's ferocity. He'd never seen Jazz like this before, and slaggit all, it unnerved him some.

"I'm talkin' 'bout what I just saw out in the hall!," Jazz elaborated, still yelling. "Good thing ya decided ya were too 'busy' or I might have just been given a free show. Honestly, Sentinel, what the frag is yer deal?"

Any anger that the blue mech was feeling quickly left him. His faceplates drained, optics wide and anxious. "Y-you... you saw all that?," he whispered dreadfully.

Jazz curled his lip component in disgust at his superior, unimpressed by his sudden meekness. "I did. Yer disgustin' Sentinel. Using some poor mech -no, sorry, _payin'_ some mech to play substitute for Optimus... I don't blame him for being upset wit' ya. He's always been forgivin' of anything else ya've ever done, but this... What ya've done to him this time is beyond insultin', mech!"

The rottweiler sank further into his seat, as if he wanted to simply melt into the leather. "I-i-i...," the bigger autodog trailed off, catching the rest of the dalmatian's words. His neck cables constricted tightly, light trembles beginning to rack his frame. Optimus... could it have been possible that the secretary had seen him with Tracks during one of their appointments? Was that why his ex-friend was so mad with him? "H-he... Oh, Primus," Sentinel said, lifting his servos to his face, "He couldn't have- I-i mean, h-he'd tell me if he had. Wo-wouldn't he...?"

Jazz had nothing to say to that. His anger was still brewing, wanting nothing more than to smack this stupid, stupid mech upside his helm. Honestly, how dare he do that to Optimus?! "Stop your pathetic self-pity!," he snapped, watching Sentinel flinch at the harsh reprimand. Not relenting, the other security guard leaned forward, thrusting a finger into the blue autodog's face. "You have no right to be feelin' sorry or anything. Optimus is the one who deserves any sympathy. How could you do that to him?! After all these years, instead of simply talkin' to him and askin' him out, you decide to be an aft and hire some- some- whore to _pretend_ to be Optimus?"

The dalmatian snarled in fury, shaking his helm quickly. "I'm glad that ya've smartened up and have decided to no longer hire that escort for your personal needs, but I think it's too late now. Ya've royally fragged things up Sentinel. If Optimus even deigns to speak to ya again, it'll be a miracle."

Sentinel still wasn't saying anything. "I... I," Jazz turned away from the rottweiler, throwing his servos up to the air furiously. "I've got to go. If I stay in this room any longer with ya, I'll murder ya. I know I will."

Storming to the door, the black and white autodog paused only for a moment, to glare back over his shoulder plating at the silent mech. "And if ya so much as go anywhere near Optimus, I'll kick yer aft so hard, they'll have a mess of a time pickin' the pieces of yer processor outta it at the hospital. Ya don't deserve to even be old friends with him Sentinel, and he definitely doesn't deserve the slag ya put him through."

His final words spoken, Jazz left the office, leaving behind a mute and sick Sentinel to himself.

**xxXxXxx**

Mirage slowed to a pause as he opened his mailbox, seeing the single white lily resting within. He looked about self-consciously, before reaching within with a trembling servo and withdrawing the flower. He brought it to his face, sniffing at it tenderly, a small smile coming to his lip components. He almost dropped the lily when the lobby doors opened and Tracks strut through them quickly. "Tracks...?," he mumbled. The pomeranian said nothing, perhaps not even noticing the ex-Noble, before heading straight for the elevator.

The troubled expression upon the taller autodog's faceplates concerned Mirage though.

"Tracks? Tracks!," he called. He hurried after the other escort, slipping into the elevator just before the doors closed. "Tracks, I've been calling you- did you not hear me?" The yorkie set a servo upon his companion's arm.

Tracks snapped out of his daze at the touch, turning to the blue and white mech. "Oh, Mirage...," he said, even as his finger was pressing the button for the penthouse suite. "I'm sorry, did you need something?"

"Umm..." The yorkie trailed off, distracted by the unexpected motion. Nobody ever went to see Flare-up unless they were first called, and seeing as the pomeranian seemed darkened in his own thoughts, it didn't seem as if their employer had asked for the escort. "I was just... you seemed... Is everything alright?"

The multi-coloured mech opened his mouth, but his attention dropped to the flower that Mirage held. A smile, somewhat forced and distant, appeared on his lip components. "I see you've gotten a lovely bloom from someone. Whose the lucky mech?," he asked politely.

The smaller autodog blushed, having entirely forgotten about the lily since spotting Tracks. "Well... I..."

Tracks' smile grew a little wider. "Listen, I have to talk to Flare-up right now. We'll catch up later, okay?"

Mirage could only nod his helm slowly, the elevator slowing to a stop. The doors dinged as they opened, showing the translucent glass entrance of their manager's apartment. The pomeranian patted the yorkie's servo lightly, turning to get off the lift. The smaller mech leaned back against the wall as the elevator doors closed again, gaze dropping to the lily. He twirled it slowly in his fingers, lost in his own wave of thoughts.

**xxXxXxx**

"Are... are you certain about this?" Flare-up slowly sank into her seat, her optics fixed on the autodog across from her. Tracks' expression was practically blank as he looked back at her, shoulders stiff and helm titled upwards in conviction.

"I am," came the clipped reply.

The jack terrier said nothing to that, opening her laptop and taping at the keys. "And you say that Mr. Sentinel is cancelling all of his scheduled appointments from this day forward as well?," she asked. The escort nodded in response.

The femme didn't know what to say. The fact that Tracks himself was here of his own accord was surprising in itself; to hear that he had been informed by his client that his services were no longer required was utterly unbelievable. The pomeranian was the best that they had in the business -he'd never been rejected by any of their clientele! "You're absolutely certain that you want to do this?," Flare-up questioned again, her fingers coming to a pause. She had already input the changes into the mech's file... all she had to do was press enter, and they'd become official.

"Yes," Tracks replied, no hesitation or nervousness in his tone. He met the jack terrier's gaze head on, refusing to break optic contact. "This isn't some random action on my part -I've... given some thought to how I've done things before. I think a change is in order."

Flare-up spared the pomeranian one last glance, before she sighed, and finished her updates. "This isn't like you," she commented, closing the lid of her laptop. "I hope that this choice of yours is of your own volition and not because of something else. I do not need to inform you of the foolishness that will follow should you lose yourself in meaningless endeavours."

Tracks rose to his pedes stiffly, still looking disinterested and distracted from this whole affair. "You have no need to worry," he quipped tersely. "I am neither a fool nor an idiot. There's nothing that I'm chasing after."

The femme didn't know how much she believed that. She frowned, watching as the other autodog turned and headed for the door. "What about your other clients?," she called.

The mech paused, looking back. "Any engagements that do not involve sexual interactions with the clients I am more than willing to comply with," the pomeranian answered. "Now if you'll excuse me..."

"One last thing," Flare-up said, getting to her pedes as well. Tracks didn't make a sound, but it was obvious that he was annoyed by the hold-up. Walking around her desk, the jack terrier approached the taller 'bot. "Take this," she ordered, holding out a datapad, "And while you're at it, go for another medical scan. The vet is still downstairs for another cycle or so. I want to have a clean bill of health from him before I send you back out into the field."

Nodding his helm, Tracks took the datapd from the femme, finally exiting from her apartment.

**xxXxXxx**

Ratchet was just about to leave the hospital when he got the call. First Aid watched the older vet as he answered his cell, a perturbed expression coming to the labrador's face. Hanging up, Ratchet grabbed his suitcase, thrusting it toward the assistant. "I need you to fill that with all the standard equipment and vaccinations," he told the australian shepherd. "Anything that will fit. Fast."

"S-sir...?," First Aid stammered, taking the suitcase. His young spark puttered with worry at the somber aura surrounding the other autodog. "What's wrong, sir?"

Ratchet cycled a heavy intake, grabbing his coat and shuffling through the datapads on his desk. "I'm not sure," he answered. "I just know that I need to get over to Perceptor's fast... Primus knows I've never heard that pup speak so frightfully since our first meeting."

The information given to the smaller mech was vague and only increased his anxiety. But understanding that time was of the utmost importance, First Aid nodded his helm quickly and rushed off to the hospital's storage closet.

**xxXxXxx**

"Show me where he is," the labrador ordered, marching into the apartment as soon as the door had been opened for him. Wheeljack quickly closed and locked it again, hurrying after Ratchet. They walked into the living room together, the engineer gesturing to the couch helplessly.

"H-he... he's been like this since I brought the boys back," Wheeljack choked, staying back as the vet approached the scientist. Perceptor sat on the couch, staring blankly at the walls ahead. His face was devoid of what little emotion it usually held, his optics dim and leaking thick trails of coolant down his cheekplates. "H-he hasn't s-said a word, d-didn't respond wh-when the boys t-tried to get his attention. Slag... R-ratchet, I-i-i... I don't know what to do! J-jetstorm and J-jetfire are w-wound up in a frenzy; I-i managed t-to get them t-to go to their rooms, b-but they... they were so u-upset..."

Ratchet's lip components were pressed into a straight line as he flashed a light into Perceptor's optics. No response came. "How long?," he asked, clicking off the flashlight and reaching into his suitcase for something else.

Wheeljack wiped at his face as he started up a nervous pacing behind the labrador. "P-primus... I d-don't know. H-he... I wasn't even expecting h-him to be home yet. A-as far as his schedule w-went, he had a m-meeting over at Fusion Inc., b-but I-i-i, I figured he'd sp-spend the rest of the day in t-the lab back at the S-science department." The engineer turned to the vet. "P-please, please tell me that you can h-help him Ratchet!"

"I need you to tell me more," the older autodog replied tersely, his optics fixed to the border collie as he checked his energon levels. "Obviously something must have happened when he went to that company today. Did he meet directly with the CEO or somebody else?"

"U-umm, he, uh...," the bulldog trailed off, servos pressing to his face again. "H-he had to see the CEO a-about some details on the commission he was hired for. I-i don't know the mech's name or anything..."

Ratchet looked over his shoulder plating at the other autodog. "You don't know his name?," the labrador asked in disbelief. "The largest, most significant company in all of Iacon, and you don't know who the CEO is? Have none of you pups been bothered to pick up a business magazine since coming here?!"

Seeing the hurt, contrite expression that Wheeljack wore, the vet sighed, turning back to the unresponsive Perceptor. "Never mind that," he sighed. "The mech that owns that company is Megatron. A small-town kittycon who's made himself-"

It was silent. Much too quiet.

Ratchet put away his tools, looking first up to the border collie he was tending to, whose tears were beginning to dry along his cheekplates now, before facing the engineer completely. "Wheeljack?," he started uncertainly, catching the horrified look of recognition that the bulldog wore and tried to hide. Quickly, the vet got to his pedes, grabbing the younger mech's shoulder plating. "If you know something, Wheeljack, you need to tell me."

Wheeljack shook his helm for a moment, tripping over his words as he tried to speak. All resistance though left the bulldog; he spared a spark-broken glance to the scientist, before leading the labrador to the kitchen. "M-megatron...," he replied softly once they were safely out of Perceptor's sight and hearing range. "Is the name of one of the older students I knew back in our home-town. He'd graduated about a couple years ahead of us all, and was going to the community college."

The engineer paused, taking a deep breath. "If Perceptor remembered him, then that might h-have made him r-revert like this, I suppose," he mumbled to himself. "B-but... Perceptor... h-he's, he hasn't cried like that in a long time. Not since before we came here. And there can b-be only one reason..."

Ratchet knew this was the moment. His intakes came in slow and heavy; his spark pulsing in time with his growing anticipation. "What reason?," he asked the other mech. "Wheeljack...?"

"Starscream," came the flat, almost breathless reply. The bulldog lifted his optics, tears collecting at the corners as he met gazes with the vet. "The real sire of Jetfire and Jetstorm."


	11. Chapter 11

The door clicked shut silently behind them, plunging the room once more into darkness. Only the glow of their optics -one blue, the other yellow- offered the only illumination as they turned to look at each other solemnly. "B-brother..."

"Is knowing I are, brother. Y-you...you is not n-needing to say thing of any."

Jetfire bit his lower lip component anxiously, turning away from his twin. His spark was all twisted up into knots at the moment, his fuel tanks roiling sickly. He wasn't sure if he was going to end up purging or crying, or both. Jetstorm quickly hugged his brother, clutching him close, olfactory sensor pressed against the other's cheekplate. "B-be okay, will, b-brother," the blue youngling mumbled soothingly. "T-trust is m-me."

"N-not is, th-though," the other whimpered back, grasping Jetstorm's arm with his shaking fingers. "M-mommy hurting i-is; s-strange 'bot b-being sire is m-making h-him sad. S-see mommy c-cry no-not ever."

It was true, the hybrids knew. They had never seen Perceptor cry before, or show any emotion really. To them, the border collie had been expressionless his whole life. To see their creator now, crying and in a daze, had terrified them beyond anything else. And it was because of a sire that they had long since accepted didn't exist? The twins didn't know how to handle this situation. So many questions popped up, tormenting them constantly.

Just who was this 'bot that had sired them?

Why did Perceptor cry because of him? Had he hurt their mommy? Was that why the scientist was so distant and unfeeling?

Was their sire aware that Perceptor had been sparked? Did he care at all, or even know, about Jetfire and Jetstorm's existence?

The twins curled up on their shared berth, still hugging each other tightly. They shivered, not from cold but fear, anxiety, confusion and concern for their creator, desperately swallowing down their sobs and whimpers, not wanting to attract any of the other adults' attention. They weren't supposed to overhear Wheeljack in the kitchen as it was, sharing that secret with Ratchet...

They lay awake, pressed close to the other's chassis, for how much longer the hybrids didn't know. To their young and perplexed processors, it felt like an eternity. Slowly, Jetfire unfolded from his brother's grasp, shifting until they were optic-level. For a klik longer, he was silent; only the sound of their intakes gently cycling in the space between them to assure that they were still awake.

"Brother...?," Jetstorm pressed, feeling his twin hesitating on something within his spark. He offered love and support over the bond, having it returned, slowly, with the same amount of sorrow his had been tinged in. Tightening his hold on the orange youngling, Jetstorm inched a little closer to Jetfire, bopping their foreheads together gently.

Jetfire exhaled heavily at the contact, shuttering his optics for a moment as he reveled in the comfort he drew from his brother. After a while though, he unshuttered them again, looking intently in the blue hybrid's visor. He could see the blue optics beneath shutter at him patiently, waiting for as long as necessary until the other was able to speak.

"Brother, i-is... is h-having idea," he confessed quietly.

The other youngling nodded slowly in understanding. Licking his lip components nervously, Jetfire continued. "T-thinking may o-of be, t-this doing h-helping mommy. W-well as, a-answer questions h-having us are. B-but is... s-scary idea."

Jetstorm frowned slightly at his brother's vague words. Just when he was about to ask for further detail, Jetfire thrust all his thoughts and feelings across the bond, almost overwhelming his twin's spark. At least, at the end of it, the blue youngling could see why his brother was so hesitant to mention it. If they followed through with it, it would mean a lot of sneaking around and secrecy.

They never had kept so many secrets before.

Jetstorm thought about it momentarily, but realized that wrong or right, he couldn't shake the proposition from his helm either. He wanted -needed- to do this as well. "O-okie for dokie...," he whispered in reply to Jetfire. "W-we do. To-together."

Relief and nervousness showed in the orange hybrid's optics, but his smile was calm. Though it seemed unlikely that the pain either of them felt would go away any time soon, and the tears were still warm in their optics, at least with this they could hope for some sleep tonight. Holding each other close, Jetstorm tugged the blankets over their curled up forms, tucking his helm under his Jetfire's chin. Tomorrow, they would get to work on their plans and hope for the best.

It was all they could do right now.

**xxXxXxx**

He was getting nervous again.

"Pardon me," Tracks smiled sultrily, his fingers resting lightly on the kittycon's forearm. Soundwave's visor flashed at the gentle pressure, silently watching as the pomeranian withdrew from him, heading for the nearest washroom. The autodog knew he was being watched as he went, feeling the intense gaze like a thousand needles prickling up and down his back struts. It took all of his effort not to quicken his pace, despite how much he felt that he suddenly needed to run away.

He didn't understand why he was getting like this to begin with.

Their date -the fortieth or something- had started out well enough, like all the others. A limousine came to pick him up at the condo, driving the pomeranian towards whichever location Soundwave had picked that night for their date. This evening, it had been the opera house. The persian had rented a private balcony for their exclusive use, situated well enough that Tracks could still both hear and see the actors below without any difficulty. Yet, the multicoloured mech had been unable to enjoy himself. He had been too tense, sitting rigidly in his cushioned seat, worried that the kittycon would make a move on him. Of course Soundwave hadn't.

When had he once, since they'd started this whole affair, even attempted a grope on the autodog's frame?

No... the persian was too polite and gentlemechly and kind and...

Tracks shook his helm vigorously as he entered into the washroom -his momentary sanctuary- the well-practised smile on his face finally falling. Catching his reflection out of the corner of his optic, the pomeranian was distraught to see that without its presence he looked utterly haggard and distressed. Of course, that's how he was feeling... but that didn't mean he wanted to appear that way also!

Groaning lightly, the autodog headed straight for the sink with its glittering mirrors, setting his wallet down on the counter top. "Primus...," he muttered to himself chastely, servos rubbing across his optics. "Straighten up! You're a professional, slaggit."

And it was true too. Tracks knew how to dress, how to talk, how to act... he was the epitome of pleasure and propriety. This was a business, and like any good businessmech, he kept things in their place. He never let himself fall out of line, and yet he was fumbling all over these orns. Seeing Soundwave... it made him nervous, and self-conscious, and just over all a wreck, and he'd had to change his entire practice just so he could have some peace when he recharged at night. Should he stop dating the kittycon, he wondered. Would that make things better?

But... the persion had been a wonderful client so far. More so than one of his profession could really hope for.

Could he really turn down any future requests from the blue mech?

The click-clack of approaching pede-steps startled the pomeranian, who tore his servos away from his face, whirling around to look at the new entry. Mirage stopped just past the washroom door, his ears perking slightly in surprise as well. "Tracks...? You're here as well tonight?"

"Mirage...," Tracks replied breathlessly. He tried to shrug off his shock, turning back to the mirror partially. "I suppose we both had engagements here this orn." He did not bother to comment on the peculiarity of such an incident. Because of what they did and the competitive streak that could grow when in their field of work, escorts usually were not booked for the same event -at least, not by different clients on the same night. Sometimes, if it was just the one client requesting two or more escorts, then their manager would select those that got along the best with each other, so as to reduce the percentage of conflict during the date. Which is why both mechs were slightly confused, if not uneasy, at the fact that they'd run into each other.

The yorkie hesitated a moment, before he pressed his lip components together tightly, marching to the sink. He set down his own purse, rifling through it momentarily for his glitter. "Did you enjoy the play?," he asked in casual conversation.

Another shrug as Tracks dutifully faced his own reflection. Primus, he looked terrible, especially standing right next to Mirage. He'd have to fix that if he wanted any hope of clinging to his dignity. The taller autodog grabbed his wallet, fumbling with the flap for a moment before it was gently taken out of his servos. Looking up, the pomeranian met the other mech's gaze, trying not to cringe at the slightly worried and accusatory optics staring back at him. "What's wrong Tracks?," Mirage politely asked. "You don't seem yourself tonight..."

"N-nothing!," Tracks was quick to reply.

The blue autodog's frown deepened. "You... Have you been drinking?" The yorkie made a face, catching now the subtle scent of alcohol on the other escort.

"Just a little champagne," the pomeranian clipped. "Please, Mirage, there's no harm in a couple glasses so spare me the lecture. I'm a grown mech; I can take care of myself." He pulled his wallet from the other's lax servos, skillfully pulling it open and withdrawing his gloss. Tracks applied a generous layer to his lip components, pressing them together to spread the wax evenly, running a finger along his cheekplates and fluffing his ears one last time. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a client to return to."

Stiffly, the multicoloured mech turned on his heel, heading for the exit. He ignored the mech behind him, who was no doubt fuming in scandalous outrage, rushing and yet still hesitating to return to Soundwave's side. He was spared the trouble of his doubts though, seeing as how the persian waited just outside of the washroom; both of their coats draped over one arm. The visor flashed as it caught sight of him, the kittycon walking forward to meet the pomeranian half-way.

"Inquiry: are you hungry?," Soundwave asked, kindly holding the autodog's coat open for him to slip on. "Status: have reservations if you would like to get something to eat."

Bringing up that... how could Tracks' refuse now, after being told that the blue mech had made reservations and everything? He bit his bottom lip component anxiously, torn. Slowly though, the pomeranian fixed a smile onto his face, turning around and facing the kittycon. "That would be lovely," he answered automatically.

Again, the visor flashed; the persian holding out a servo for Tracks to take. He did so, unable to block out the feeling of dread weighing heavily in his fuel tanks, as he was led out of the opera house and to the limousine waiting at the street below.

**xxXxXxx**

The streets were a little cool this evening.

Rodimus bunched his shoulder plating around his ears, quickening his pace just the slightest. The phone booth wasn't too far ahead now and as pitiful as it was, its small rectangular space would provide him with some slight protection from the chill tickling at his tail and olfactory sensor. Just as he had thought it, the golden retriever found himself at the booth, pulling back the door and stepping inside.

His stiff fingers deposited a couple credits into the appropriate slot; punching in the access code next. The screen flickered on as it registered both requirements had been met, dial tone ringing as it attempted to complete the connection. A resounding beep came not long after, the blue monitor before him darkening as the comm went through. A hulking shadow filling his view.

"Hello...?," a gruff voice asked, a little snappishly. The 'bot on the other end though cut himself off from growling any more, recognizing who his caller was. "Well, well... if it isn't my favourite pedigree."

Rodimus ignored the lustful purr, staring at the other coolly. "Meet me at Daily Nights in two cycles. East side," he commanded.

"And if I said I had plans for this night?," the stranger shot back. Even if the smirk wasn't evident on his face, the amusement in his tone would have been enough to show how much he was enjoying all of this. The autodog scowled, refusing to rise to the bait.

"Daily Nights, two cycles," he repeated. "I will only wait a cycle." He didn't even wait for the other mech to state his piece, before a slender finger was lifting and ending the comm. Silently, Rodimus stepped back out into the chill night, heading for his car parked not too far away.

**xxXxXxx**

He tripped again as he tried to walk forwards, the glass of champagne in his servos sloshing dangerously as he clasped onto the closet frame to keep from falling over. Giggling uncontrollably, Tracks did not mind the servo that touched against his back struts, helping him upright. "O-oh my," he hiccupped. "Aren't y-you a ge-gentlemech."

As drunk as he was, the pomeranian did not notice the way the red visor of his partner glowed or how his intakes hitched slightly the longer he leaned against the other's chassis.

"Status: overcharged," Soundwave replied back, moving his servo from Tracks' back struts and to his elbow. Gently, he pushed the autodog away a few inches. "Fact: consumed too much at dinner. Apologies for that. Perhaps plans were ill-timed, should have taken you home instead."

The drunken mech made a sound of disagreement in his throat, trying to nuzzle closer to the persian. "No, no...," he slurred, his drink tipping dangerously in his servo. "I... f-fun, I has so m-much fun. Let's pa-party some more."

Soundwave tried to remain in control, even as the pomeranian twisted out from his servo, throwing his arms around his neck cables, his glass dropping to the floor unnoticed with the action.

"D-don't," Tracks hiccupped, trying to flirt, "D-don't want you to play w-with me?"

The persian hesitated, his servos half-raised at his sides. A small purr was making its way out of the depths of his system; inch by inch, the kittycon slowly found himself leaning down towards the waiting autodog, wanting to touch those glistening lip components that sat plump and pursed for him alone. Yet, Tracks seemed to have a different opinion. The approach of that red visor, getting closer and closer to his face caused the pomeranian's fuel tanks to drop suddenly, granting him enough clarification to pierce through the hazy cloud filling his processor.

"U-uh, maybe, I-i-i... no, I th-think, I..." The escort twisted his helm to the side quickly, shaking it weakly as he attempted to pull back. It seemed though that whatever reservations Soundwave had in the beginning were lost now. The kittycon's visor winked in slight bafflement at the other's sudden rejection, but a purr still escaped his vocalizer as his servos rested lightly on the pomeranian's waist.

Tracks nearly tripped over his pedes as he back-pedaled, back struts colliding with the wall. Soundwave followed his every move, closing in, servo reaching up. The pomeranian shivered, fingertips brushing his cheekplates as those golden digits closed over the frame of his glasses; pulling them off and away from his face. He could feel his spark sputtering erratically inside his chest; energon boiling so hot in his cheekplates that Tracks thought he might simply overheat from the intensity coming off of them. All the while, the kittycon looked down on him, visor flashing with unspoken thoughts -a swirl of lust and longing reflected in the red glass, all focused on the slim autodog.

The champagne from earlier was burning up fast now, spurred on by the rush of adrenaline. It left the pomeranian feeling woozy and anxious, as reality continued to fade and focus all around him. The action was distracting and right now, he didn't need it.

Tracks swallowed sharply, feeling his whole frame begin to tremble. He wished for Soundwave to back up, hoped that the persian would return him his glasses so that he might flee from this situation and his own conflicted processor. But the other mech did not budge, still studying the pomeranian intently, and quickly Tracks found himself no longer wanting to leave.

"N-no, I-i-i," the autodog murmured helplessly, "I-i should g-go... h-home... I-i sh-should..."

"Request: stay," the kittycon purred. His servos were pocketing Tracks' glasses, before winding around the pomeranian's waist, tugging him tight against the other mech's frame. Even intoxicated as he was, Tracks could feel the heat coming off of Soundwave's frame; the rumble of his systems as his touch slid up and down the slimmer 'bot's backstruts. "Status: have a room reserved. Not too far away."

A needy moan escaped Tracks, his fingers gripping tight around the persian's shoulder plating as he wriggled desperately against Soundwave. He couldn't even comprehend running away now, not with his sensory net crackling and his valve clenching hungrily behind his plating.

He glanced dazedly down the hotel's hall, before tossing his helm back as Soundwave pressed him tight against the wall, gold fingers curling around his aft, just under his tail. Against the rumbling purr loud in his ear, the pomeranian mewled, shuttering his optics.

"...Y-yes...," he gasped, as his depth of reality again slipped from his focus, and there was only the mounting pleasure for him to cling to.

**xxXxXxx**

"_It's... a little small, but nice."_

_The bulldog ducked under the doorway, studying the kitchen for a klik before he turned around and entered into the next room -the living room- only a little larger than the one he had just exited from. Though he was tempted, the mech refrained from checking the rest of the rooms, guessing that they were probably just as small, if not smaller._

_His companion walked into the room behind him, slowly and quietly._

"_It is practical," the other replied flatly. "Is there a problem, Wheeljack?"_

_Wheeljack's ears perked at the question, quickly he turned to look back at Perceptor. The border collie was staring up at him blankly, waiting for an answer, a small servo resting on top of his rotund stomach. It looked almost ridiculous on the smaller mech, who seemed as if he might fall over any minute from the sheer weight alone._

"_W-what? Oh, oh no, no there's no problem," he quickly assured, coming forward to assist the younger autodog. "It's a really good place. That bonus from the Science Department was a great help, without it we never would have been able to get this apartment. Here, you're looking tired, why don't you sit for a little bit."_

_The red and black autodog let himself be led to a small, spindly chair occupying the room, both servos cupping the bottom of his stomach plating as he was seated. "Yes," Perceptor agreed. "The money was most beneficial. But it'll only last the next week or so. Food is required and basic necessities."_

_The younger mech made a valid point. They had no furniture yet to speak of, with the exception of this lone chair that had been left in the apartment from the previous tenants, and no other provisions other than what the bulldog had packed in his duffel bag. They were literally two highschool graduates, fresh from a small town, in the big city for the first time in their lives. Wheeljack had thought they should stay in a motel for a little bit until they could find a place to stay, but Perceptor had been adamant that they locate themselves the most accommodating and cheapest apartment available immediately. With a little luck, the money forwarded to Perceptor for agreeing to join Iacon's prestigious science team and help from a kind 'bot in the lobby, their searching had been cut down by cycles, orns even._

_It only took a couple cycles more before they'd put down first and last month's rent, getting the keys from the landlord on the spot._

_First night in Iacon... at least, they'd be spending it in a place they could call their own._

_Looking around himself again, Wheeljack smiled as he turned his helm back to the border collie. "It's a great place really. We can take our time sprucing it up, getting it ready for the sparkling," he assured, a comforting servo on the smaller autodog's shoulder plating. "A little bit of paint, some curtains... In the meantime, I've got some money saved so we don't have to worry about food for a while. And-"_

"_Wheeljack."_

_The white mech cut off his vocalizer, shuttering his optics at the sparked 'bot. "Yes, Percy?"_

_Perceptor looked back at him, dim optics slowly shuttering behind his glasses. "Thank you," the emotionless autodog said. "It was unnecessary for you to come along with me. Your education has yet to be completed."_

_Wheeljack's helm fins flashed lilac with the gesture of concern. "It's alright, really," he replied. "I mean, I've always wanted to be an engineer and well, I can finish my school here at the community college before applying for the Science Department as well. Besides, you'll need someone to help you out once the sparkling is protoformed."_

"_But-"_

"_I don't mind, Perceptor," the bulldog insisted, his servo patting the other's shoulder plating softly. "Really, I don't. If any of this bothered me, I wouldn't have come, you know."_

_Perceptor canted his helm at his friend a little, but did not attempt to protest the larger mech's words again. Instead, he gave a second, "Thank you", turning his attention down to stare distantly at his bulging stomach. Wheeljack did not mind. He cycled a slow intake, staring at the border collie a moment longer before he straightened up._

"_I'll just head downstairs -get us something to eat," he announced quietly, "I won't be gone long."_

_Glancing back from the doorway, he saw that Perceptor had yet to even acknowledge his absence. Sighing quietly, Wheeljack tried to keep his spirits up as he grabbed his credit purse, exiting out of the apartment._

**xxXxXxx**

Morning sunlight, muted, pierced at his bleary optics, making Wheeljack cringe a little at the sensation. He moved slowly at first, still trying to get his frame to respond with his thoughts, exhaustion making the joints creaking with the motion. It took him nearly a klik to get out of the chair he'd spent the whole night in and even when he could stand, he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into it. Dim optics turned to the couch, where Perceptor laid across the cushions, ears flat against his helm and half-curled under the blanket the bulldog had draped over him earlier on. Tears still pricked about the border collies's shuttered optics; a sign that even in recharge, the smaller mech was tormented with whatever demons haunted his spark.

The sight tore at the engineer's spark, who felt the experience increase ten-fold, knowing that there was nothing he could do.

He'd been unable to help Perceptor back when they were in highschool... and he was just as useless now.

Honestly, why did the bulldog even bother?

Wheeljack was already kneeling beside the smaller autodog before he had realized he'd even moved. There was a reason why he went through all of this, a kind voice in the back of his processor soothed, and it was valid in itself. After all, how could love ever be wrong?

The white mech tried not to sigh. To anyone who knew him, it was obvious that he was madly in love with his best friend, even if he would never admit it. Slaggit it all, the engineer had always loved Perceptor and he loved the twins even more. Too many nights he beat himself over the fact that he hadn't been there, protecting the border collie like Wheeljack had told himself he would; screwing up where things counted most, and not being the real sire of Jetfire and Jetstorm himself.

Oh... how he wished he really was their dad, in name and energon...

The weight of his failures, and the evidence that stared back at him every single orn in the younglings' cheerful gazes, tore at Wheeljack. He'd messed up so bad... Because of him, Perceptor had retreated into this fragile, suffocating shell. Because of him, they had run away from home as soon as they'd finished highschool. Because of him, they'd spent years, dancing around each other and the others; the jettwins contented by this pseudo-family that they had, but never knowing the truth. And Wheeljack... always stuck as the best friend and uncle...

"I just want to help you...," the bulldog whispered softly, his servo lifting up. He held it uncertainly, hovering just above the scientist's helm. "I wanted to be the one there for you, always."

"U-uncle Wheeljack?"

The autodog startled at the whispered call, lifting his helm and looking over the couch's back. Jetfire and Jetstorm stood nervously at the edge of the hallway, ears drooping and tails tucked between their knees. Their optics were staring right at the engineer, but were quick to glance away every few astroseconds.

"I-is... is time to l-leave school f-for," the blue hybrid mumbled, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"S-should... should be m-may going, y-yes?," his brother asked.

It was only when they mentioned it that Wheeljack noticed that the twins were out of their pajamas and dressed.

Swallowing sharply, the bulldog started to rise to his pedes. "Right... o-oh, okay. You, umm, you b-boys go get your b-backpacks, and I'll... I'll take you to your tutors, a-alright?," he instructed, waving distractedly. The younglings nodded their helms slowly, before turning and padding off down the hallway.

For a moment, Wheeljack just stood there, not knowing what else to do. Glancing down to the slumbering border collie, the white mech dropped back to his knees, a trembling servo stroking down the back of Perceptor's helm. "I'll be back shortly," he mumbled to the unconscious mech. "I promise."

Daringly, Wheeljack leaned forward, kissing the jewel on the other's brow quickly before getting back up and walking around the couch towards the front door. He cycled a heavy intake, wiping messily at his optics as he grabbed his coat.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping him. For a moment, he enjoyed the warmth surrounding him and the silk sheets beneath him, before his processor ache decided to make itself known. Gritting his denta at the pain, the pomeranian tried to push himself up but found he couldn't. Spark seizing in panic, Tracks slowly onlined his optics, finding his face pressed against blue chestplates.

_'Oh slag...' _was the only thing that went through the autodog's helm. What happened last night? Where the frag was he and who was this mech he was currently in berth with?!

The pomeranian lifted his helm slowly, seeing Soundwave -blessedly still asleep- with his helm resting on one of the hotel pillows. Slag, Tracks cursed. The hotel... They'd come here after the opera for dinner, and anxious as he was, Tracks had practically finished off an entire bottle of champagne to himself, and then some. After that... well, he obviously couldn't remember what happened next, but no doubt he'd done something completely stupid that Soundwave had felt obligated to respond to.

He shouldn't have been in this situation! The autodog was no longer sleeping with his clients, this... this went against everything in his contract!

Tracks tried not to whimper in distress. He had to get out of here, the multi-coloured mech noted, before the persian woke up and things could get even worse. Slowly, the pomeranian twisted around, gently prying off the golden fingers around his waist and lifting Soundwave's arm so he could slide out from under it. He found his thighs were a little sore, and some residue stickiness was there. Wasting a moment, Tracks stared incredulously down at his legs, wondering just how long and how many times the kittycon had fragged him.

But alas, there was no time to properly clean up. The escort would have to wait until he got home to shower and check himself further. Squinting, Tracks quickly searched the room for his glasses, finding them tucked neatly in Soundwave's suit pocket. He put them on and quickly gathered his clothes, trying not to curse himself as he slipped on his pants. The small sound the action made caused the kittycon to stir slightly. Going rigid in his panic, the autodog watched as the other mech turned his helm, his poor spark flaring erratically. But Soundwave only moved his helm, his visor still dark as the persian slumbered on.

Tracks couldn't sigh in relief. Not yet.

Grabbing his shirt, his coat and his wallet in his arms, the pomeranian decided he could stay in the room no longer and tip-toed for the door. Biting his lip component, he opened the door as quietly as he could; cringing a little when the lock clicked as he closed it on the other side. Swallowing sharply, Tracks hurried down the hallway, not wanting to wait and see if the sound had finally woken Soundwave from recharge.

Along the way, he threw on his shirt and coat, trying to focus on how many credits he had in his wallet instead of the fuel-tank dropping, spark-clawing terror that crackled through every circuit.

Oh, what had he done now...?


	12. Chapter 12

_He'd seen that mech around before._

_Rodimus stood against a pillar, glass of low-grade in his servo, as he stared curiously at the other autodog across the room. In the beginning, he had been merely mingling with the other party-goers, trying to strike up discussion with several of them. Each had been a fairly short and clipped conversation. Despite Ultra Magnus' beliefs, the golden retriever really did not do well in "high class" scenes, and this party was only proving it._

_The young mech would rather be back at home, going over homicide case files than be here, attempting to charm some over-privileged, pompous mutt. It was just too bad that this kind of crowd happened to be their most frequent clients. After a couple cycles of failed conversation and rebuttal after rebuttal, Rodimus had resigned to an evening of boredom, until things had wound down enough that he could acceptably leave. Of course, his boredom was quick to depart once he'd spotted that familiar mech._

_Even among all the pedigrees surrounding him, it was very hard not to notice the pomeranian. Obviously, the stranger worked diligently to make his presence as such._

_The last time the lawyer had seen him was at a social function similar to this one last week. Except this time, he wasn't with the same mech. Rodimus peered perplexedly at the ageing autodog that had one servo on the pomeranian's backstruts; before his very optics, that servo slyly dropped lower, squeezing heatedly at the other's aft. The golden retriever almost spluttered in shock at the blatant disregard for the stranger's dignity and self-respect, but felt even more alarmed when the autodog did nothing about it._

_Was this acceptable behaviour among these snooty 'bots? Should he anticipate someone sneaking up behind him and grabbing at his tail some time soon?_

_Spurred on by his slightly paranoid thoughts, Rodimus glanced behind him, but thankfully found no other autodog within ten feet of his person. Huffing at his ridiculous thoughts, the golden retriever turned forwards again; an optic ridge rising in surprise as he saw the pomeranian stroke his partner's cheekplate before twisting away. Seeing this for the opportunity that it was, Rodimus quickly gave chase, trailing after the other autodog before he was completely lost in the crowd. He followed the pomeranian all the way down a less populated hallway, before the taller mech turned the corner up ahead._

_Increasing his pace, the golden retriever rounded the same corner, finding himself coming to an immediate stop just before the very 'bot he was chasing. A smile pulled at rouge lip components; seductive blue optics sparkling in mirth behind glass frames. _

"_Hello," purred the other._

"_U-um..." Rodimus quickly straightened up, taking a step back. Giving himself a moment to collect his dignity, the lawyer quickly cleared his vocalizer, turning his helm to the side slightly; feigning disinterest as he tried to calm the flushing of his cheekplates. "My apologies. I thought that this way led to the washrooms."_

_The pomeranian smirked at the poor excuse, crossing his arms over his chestplates as he stepped closer to the golden retriever. "Really now? I could have sworn that you were simply following me," he replied, amusement colouring his tone. "In fact, I'm certain that you've been watching me for the past cycle already. It's hard not to notice such a fervent stare from a cutie like yourself."_

_There was no way to hide his blush now. "I... I've seen you before. At the Grandus' party last week," Rodimus mumbled. "You were with a different 'bot there too..."_

"_Ah...," said the multi-coloured autodog. His optics flashed knowingly. "And no doubt you wanted to inquire about my various 'mechfriends', correct? I'm sure a smart mech like yourself can figure it out."_

_The golden retriever frowned at the avoidance, shifting in place uncomfortably. If he had to caution a guess as to what the other was, he knew it would not be a pleasant answer, nor a respectable career. Still, the pomeranian was evidently waiting for a response... "A pleasure-bot," Rodimus supplied, keeping his expression as neutral as possible as the words escaped him._

_As he had half-expected, anger flashed across the other's optics and his lip components pulled downwards in a scowl. "No, not a pleasure-bot," the other started, obviously miffed. "Though," he purred again in the next moment, "I do excel in the field of pleasure. No, my dear friend, I am an escort. That's a little different from a lowly, virus-infected pleasure-bot. The paycheck is bigger for one."_

_Rodimus frowned again, slightly annoyed that he was being spoken to like an ignorant sparkling. His earlier unease fading now, he propped his servos on his hips, looking at the pomeranian blandly. "So you make a living by sleeping with various mechs? I can not fathom how such a thing would be considered dignifying."_

_The multi-coloured mech chuckled softly, stepping forwards until he was pede-to-pede with the golden retriever. Not one to be intimidated by anyone -not even arrogant, beautiful pansies- Rodimus_ _maintained his stance, even when daring fingers stroked temptingly down his chestplates._

"_Don't be so silly, love," cooed the stranger. "Everybody needs a little love, every now and then. Even if it's just physical."_

_The cynical truth of the words echoed painfully in Rodimus' spark. The pomeranian stared at him silently as he turned his helm away again, his gaze fixed to the floor dimly. _

"_I can see," started the other autodog softly as he withdrew his fingers, "That apparently even you are the same as everyone else. Here." A card flashed under Rodimus' olfactory sensor._

_Uncertainly, the golden retriever reached up, taking the card. It was for some bar he'd never heard of; the address placing it somewhere at the edge of the city. Flipping the plastic over, Rodimus found a cell number scribbled on the back. The name 'Tracks' was written just under it._

"_Should you ever need someone to call," the pomeranian said as he stepped around the lawyer and back towards the party. "Remember: there's no harm in having outlets. Everyone needs them at one point or another."_

_Rodimus looked up from the card, turning and watching Tracks strut away. Silently, his optics dropped back down to the card in his fingers, before he slipped it into his pocket._

**xxXxXxx**

Systems humming quietly as they began to stir into attentiveness once more, Rodimus slowly onlined his optics, his processor replaying the last dregs of the memory file over in his helm like a self-made taunt.

He'd think it was a curious thing to remember, but considering the circumstances, the autodog couldn't say that it was really.

Sitting up, kicking the arm off that had wrapped itself around his waist presumptuously, the golden retriever slipped off the berth, ignoring his partner's sleepy grumbles of discontent. It only took him moments to wipe off the mess between his thighs with some tissue, and then several more to put his clothes back on.

"Going so soon then?," teased a low voice.

Coldly, Rodimus turned to face Blackout, buttoning up the last of his shirt. "I'll call you when it's necessary," he informed, grabbing his keys and heading for the door.

The kittycon watched him go silently, his expression displeased.

**xxXxXxx**

"Uncle Jazz... what is most of vital company being for Iacon?"

The dalmatian slowed in his chopping, turning and looking at his two charges. Jetstorm and Jetfire -who'd been nearly mute all orn- were currently looking up at him now, their own sets of onions sitting half diced, abandoned for the time being. He wasn't entirely sure if it was from the vegetables or not, but it almost looked as if the hybrids optics were glazed to the security guard.

"Um, well," Jazz struggled to grin, trying to remain cheery for the oddly quiet younglings, "There really are a lot of companies that are important to a city. Iacon just happens to have many globally vital institutions calling this place home for their headquarters."

"Yes, but ones which?," Jetstorm asked, setting down his knife completely. His brother copied him.

Seeing that they weren't going to be getting back to cooking anytime soon, Jazz sighed softly, putting down his own knife and turning the stove off. "Well, let's see," he explained, stroking at his chin thoughtfully. "You've got your basic ones, Pipelines, Cybertron Bridge and Octane Airways, for imports and exports. Then you've got the judicial system, obviously, and the Science Guild along with Iacon General. And of course you got your speciality ones, such as the CaseDeck Communications Network and Fusion Inc."

The twins perked at that last sentence. "Is what that?," Jetfire asked, his tone unusually innocent.

"What, you mean Fusion Inc?," Jazz replied. Two helms nodded in confirmation. "Well, that one is an easy answer. That company has been around for a good decade now, and they've entirely taken over all industries for energon-processing and refinement. In fact, the CEO lives not too far away... Word has it that he lives in a smaller town just outside of Iacon, with his wife and family."

"Listen boys, I'm not really good with all this business stuff," the dalmatian continued, raising his servos in apology. "If you want though, there should be some magazines over there on the table. I know there was one or two with articles about various CEOs and their beginning roots. You two go on ahead and I'll finish cooking this up so we can at least have some lunch, okay?"

At his suggestion, Jetfire and Jetstorm immediately dashed off towards the lounge room table, wrestling each other for the magazines. Jazz only watched them go, smiling wryly at the cute if baffling behaviour, as he turned the stove back on to let the water boil and busied himself with the last of the onions.

**xxXxXxx**

It was a quiet day, Rodimus noted. Shuffling through his files quietly, the autodog turned the corner, lifting his helm to greet Optimus. The words though did not fall of the tip of his glossa; shuttering his optics in shock, the lawyer stared uncertainly at the empty desk where the german shepherd would usually be. He was stirred from his daze when the glass doors behind the secretary's desk opened up, Ultra Magnus exiting out of them.

"Ah, Rodimus," the great dane greeted, "How are you?"

Shaking his helm a little, the golden retriever turned to the older lawyer, a smile on his lip components. "I'm good, sir, but... I'm sorry, I confess I'm a little perplexed. Where is Optimus? It is not usual for him to be away from the desk," Rodimus replied.

Ultra Magnus nodded his helm in understanding, approaching the younger mech. "Yes, I can understand your confusion," he said kindly, one large servo resting on the other's shoulders. "Optimus is a diligent worker, but even he needs some days off. At the moment, he has requested sick leave and is no doubt at home, recovering from whatever it is that plagues him. I hope for a speedy and kind recovery."

Rodimus let himself be turned about, the great dane's servo still sitting warmly on his shoulder plating as they walked back down the hall. "Yes, I hope he gets better as well. His absence is a little unsettling... perhaps I am just too used to him being here." The golden retriever shrugged. "My only concern now would have to be the twins. Do Jetfire and Jetstorm know?"

"I'm not certain," the older mech confessed. "But, I am sure they are being kept busy with their other tutors. Which reminds me: how are they faring in your class?"

"They are doing quite well. It won't be too long before they are proper, polite mechs."

Ultra Magnus looked down at the golden retriever. "But?" Rodimus lifted his helm to the larger 'bot perplexedly. "I can hear the hesitation in your vocalizer, Rodimus," the great dane pointed out. "Tell me, what is it that bothers you?"

Cheekplates flushing in embarrassment, the smaller mech shifted his files in his arms, before sighing softly and acquiescing to his boss' gentle prompt. "I guess I'm still uncertain about why you chose me of all mechs to teach two younglings etiquette and courtesy," Rodimus explained. "Surely, there must have been others much more equipped at teaching such vital lessons, other than myself."

The older lawyer smiled, stopping and facing the other autodog fully. At the absolute attention he was receiving, Rodimus was quick to lower his gaze shyly. "The fact that you can say such things, and with gentleness, only further shows that you are right to be the twins' tutor in this field," Ultra Magnus complimented. "You understand that proper behaviour is a life-long lesson, and everyday, even you are learning more. If you had been cocky in any sense, it would be an error on my part to appoint you as those young ones' teacher. Is my judgement marred?"

Rodimus flushed further, dropping his chin for a moment before respectively turning his face back up and speaking clearly so the bigger mech could hear. "...Y-you, you flatter me much, sir."

Chuckling, the great dane patted the young lawyer's arm, tucking his arms behind his back and walking forwards again. The smaller autodog was quick to follow. "It is flattery well-deserved," Ultra Magnus said. "One day, you shall make a 'bot very happy. Your politeness and chivalry shall endear them to you, and I know the family you both will raise together will be a good one. I look forward to that day."

Enraptured as he was with his harmless musings, the older lawyer missed the look of sorrow that flashed across Rodimus' optics, or the way his pace slowed just a tad. "Yes, of course, sir," the golden retriever replied flatly, before falling silent altogether.

**xxXxXxx**

"That is... being sire?"

Jetstorm leaned in closer to his brother, his question a whisper as he stared at the glossy page before him. Jetfire did not answer him, but merely frowned at the article; his optics dimming sadly. Jazz had been right: they were many magazines left in the lounge room, some older than others, and a lot about various businesses around Iacon. It had taken the hybrids a little while to search through the collected mass, but their efforts had been fortuitous in the end.

They had found the specific issue their tutor had mentioned.

"He big, looking scary mech is," Jetfire had noted, when they'd first started scouring through the pages. At first, they'd been merely skimming, but when Jetstorm noted the word 'family', they'd slowed down to actually read the words printed on the page. It made their fuel tanks sink low in their frames.

"Big 'bot money makes lot of," the blue youngling said.

His twin vented softly. "He happy is, says paper. Big 'bot live in house pretty and big, for good raising lots of sparklings." Jetfire fell silent as they turned the next page, being graced with an entire spread of photos: some featuring the CEO by himself, some of him with other 'bots, and even a family photo. But it was the one picture, of the a slim, magenta mech that had caught their immediate attention.

Shivers ran down the orange hybrid's backstruts, catching Jetstorm's concern. Pressing closer, the other youngling looked on at the image of their supposed sire, feeling his own mix of sorrow, confusion and anger nearly overwhelm him. This "Starscream" was beautiful... and looked absolutely happy by the other kittycon's side.

It didn't seem as if the abyssinian was sorry at all about the two 'bots he had sired, and their mommy that had been abandoned in the process.

Jetfire turned towards his brother, shutting the magazine and quickly rolling it up between his angry servos. "It okay being," he ground out lowly, his optics fixed to the table in his ire, "We answers get. Soon. He us tell why he not care about us."

"Yes...," Jetstorm agreed softly, taking the magazine from his twin and slipping it inside of his sweater. "Now knowing we his face. Soon, we finding home, then... then thing of every being okie for dokie."

"Boys," Jazz called from behind them. "Food's ready."

Zipping up his sweater, the blue youngling kissed his brother's cheekplate, before shuffling the rest of the magazines into a neat pile as he rose to his pedes. Jetfire copied his motion, glancing anxiously at the security guard. It didn't seem as if Jazz had heard a word of their recent conversation though.

That was good.

They could not have anyone interfering until they'd met this plan through.

**xxXxXxx**

Wheeljack sighed, turning his helm away from the other 'bot; fingers rubbing at his tired optics. "Ratchet..."

"No," interrupted the labrador. The vet locked the office door, before pointedly gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. At the silent command, the engineer gave in, seating himself down and watching wearily as Ratchet circled around him, sitting himself in the desk chair across from the younger mech. "We need to talk."

"Ratchet, really it's not-"

"Don't," growled Ratchet, jabbing a finger at the bulldog, "Tell me that it's not necessary. Before, you had agreed that measures were going to be needed to help Perceptor rehabilitate himself to function normally in regular society. We started with you first telling me a little about your shared history. Apparently, you left out some very important details."

Wheeljack bowed his helm at the true accusation, cupping his servos in his lap anxiously. "Listen, Ratchet, this...this isn't really the best time. I..."

"Not the best time? Not the best time?!," the other autodog roared, leaping to his pedes. The engineer held back his whimper with sheer will, sinking low in his seat as Ratchet loomed over him from the other side of the desk. "What time should we wait for then? HUH?! Tell me, Wheeljack? Are we supposed to wait until Perceptor has completely shut down, or worse, to find him having poisoned himself with the various, lethal chemicals that he comes in contact with EVERY ORN?!"

Snarling as he reigned in the rest of his words, the vet collapsed into his seat again; his servos tight fists on the desk top. "Wheeljack...," he started again, after he'd given himself a klik to calm down some, "Everything about this situation is... unstable. Right now, Perceptor is having a psychotic break and his sons are suffering because of it especially. You've told me that you were once classmates in a small town, and now that the unknown sire of Jetfire and Jetstorm just happens to also be the bondmate of one of Iacon's most important CEOs. I need to know now -exactly how did this all happen?"

Wheeljack's gaze lifted from the floor slowly, his optics glazed with tears. "I just... I don't," he choked. "I-i don't... I don't know if I can..."

Ratchet's expression softened, his servos uncurling and lying flat on the desk. "You can Wheeljack. Trust me, everything is going to be alright."

Cycling a shaky intake, the bulldog sat forward in his chair, his servos cupping his forehead as he dropped his gaze back to the floor. "A-all... alright," he conceded weakly. The labrador remained quiet, waiting, until his companion had the strength to speak again. "Y-you... you already know that we came from a small town."

Ratchet nodded.

"W-well...um, Perceptor came... He, he actually lived in a smaller town. Right, so, he's very intelligent, like, the youngest 'bot to ever be inducted into the Science Department as a full-time scientist," Wheeljack rambled nervously. "And-"

"Wheeljack," the older autodog kindly cut in.

Falling quiet for a moment, the bulldog nodded his helm in understanding, getting himself back on track. "W-well, the town he came from was like, really, really tiny in comparison to ours. They had one small school house, for all grades. Well, the principal recognized Perceptor's genius and had him transferred up to our town to continue his education. He stayed in a small dorm house, set up for cases just like this. I... I just happened to be his roommate."

Wheeljack lifted his helm a little, smiling in bitter remembrance. "My mom had died when I was younger... Dad, he tried, but he just couldn't keep it together. He ended up being hospitalized indefinitely, for narcotic abuse and processor damage. I was still too young to really get a job, and well, in places like that... your social rep just doesn't recover. The school gave me permission to live in the dorms until I graduated, but I think they were just hoping I'd give up and go off and join my pops in the hospital."

"I confess...," the engineer admittedly sadly, "Sometimes, I thought about doing just that. I mean, there was no one there to support or encourage my dreams. They all felt like ash in my servos, especially when too many people were criticizing me... But then, Percy showed up. He was young, but, he was so enthusiastic about everything! He was the only one who didn't think my ambitions were silly and he listened eagerly to all of my rambles, even going so far as to kindly offer constructive advice where he could. I gotta say I needed an expert opinion on some things..."

Ratchet said nothing. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, absorbing the words being spoken to him. Wheeljack half-smiled, lost in memories of older times, before all of this madness began. He came out of his daze a few kliks later, glancing up to see the labrador waiting for him to continue on patiently. Flushing in embarrassment, the bulldog straightened, cycling a deep intake to steady himself.

This next bit would bring him no joy to repeat.

"We... Perceptor was on the fast track. Everybody knew he was going to make it to Iacon Academy within a couple years. I...I didn't mind. I mean, I would have graduated by then, hopefully, so I was hoping to go to Iacon as well. Their engineer program was the best, and if I graduated from the Academy, I'd have a better shot at being accepted in the Science Department." The younger mech paused, his optics dimming in sorrow. "Midterms were over, and the seniors were throwing a big bash. A couple of my classmates invited me, and I in turn, invited Perceptor."

"You were a senior then, correct?," Ratchet asked, for clarification. Wheeljack nodded. "And this party... you mentioned it before."

The bulldog whined lowly in his throat. "Yes...," he continued. "It's... I failed Perceptor. There was drinking, some, not too much. I got Perceptor some p-punch... i-it must have been spiked. Somebody pulled me a-away to talk and... and when I turned around..."

Wheeljack bowed his helm again. "Percy, he... he was gone..."

Silence descended between them again. Ratchet held a servo to his mouth, his gaze fixed to the lacquered wood of his desk. He could formulate guesses from what the other autodog had told him so far, but they'd only be guesses. He needed more information before he could say anything certain.

"...was he raped...?"

The engineer flinched at the question. "I... I don't know," he whimpered, burying his face in his servos again, "I, I d-don't know..."

The vet said nothing as his companion cried, feeling his spark wither with sympathy. "What happened?," Ratchet pressed gently.

Wheeljack wiped at his optics, swallowing sharply before continuing on. "I...I was starting to search, but nobody had seen where Perceptor had gone. I was just about to go upstairs to the bedrooms when...when that little glitch Starscream came strutting in like some over-pampered pedigree." The bulldog's optics flashed angrily, and his servos clenched against the chair's arm rests. "He starts boasting, like it's some kind of prize, and he... he humiliates Perceptor, in front of the entire senior grade. He never cared about Perceptor, not at all..."

"I... I've never hated someone in all my life, ever!," Wheeljack growled out. "That... that sleazy, whoring kittycon took Perceptor's virginity and then degraded him throughout the entire school! And if that wasn't enough, Perceptor he... he found out later, he was pregnant."

The engineer weakened before the labrador's very optics, sinking low into his chair again. His optics were dim with sorrow, his shoulders slumped with immeasurable regret. "I swore... I swore I'd protect him, Ratchet. That I would wait for him, because I loved him... but, but Starscream ruined everything. My hopes, Perceptor's life..."

"It was only because Perceptor persevered through the abuse and ostracization, graduating at the very end of his first year in that town, that he survived that long. I, I could see it Ratchet..." Wheeljack looked at the vet, his vision swimming with tears. "I watched d-day... d-day after day, as th-the one I loved, j-just... just wi-withered up and s-stopped feeling. B-but I swore, I sw-swore, that I w-wouldn't fail him again. I w-would keep him safe, h-him and th-the boys... and I-I'd hope. Hope for the day w-when the Perceptor I knew -the s-sweet, care-free, curious mech- w-would come back once again."

Ratchet got to his pedes then, coming around the desk and patting Wheeljack on the shoulder plating momentarily, before heading to the counter at the front of the room and making a mug of oil. Returning to his distraught friend, the vet handed the hot drink to the younger autodog; seating himself at the edge of his desk and sighing wearily.

"This... this is definitely a terrible set of circumstances," the labrador agreed. "As far as we know, Perceptor could have been raped. On the other hand, he might have willingly agreed to going with Starscream that night. Whatever the case may be, it doesn't change the fact that he might have been intoxicated, and henceforth, unable to make clear decisions on his own. And that indiscretion led to him being pregnant... None of you should have suffered that at all, especially not Perceptor. That kittycon should have taken responsibility for the things he did, instead of humiliating the pup and leaving you with the broken remains."

"Wheeljack," Ratchet continued, kneeling before the bulldog. He rested his servos on the other's shoulder plating, looking up into the engineer's glazed optics. "What happened is in the past now. Do not seek revenge on Starscream; it will do you no good, whatsoever. If Perceptor wishes to confront this mech, then you must let him, and you must let him do it on his own, unless he asks for your presence exclusively."

Wheeljack started at the words. "But-"

"No. Not 'buts'," the old vet interjected quickly. "Listen, Wheeljack, I know this is hard. But right now, there's still a hurt mech needing your comfort and support. You've held strong for this long. If you can keep strong a little longer, I'm sure that eventually, Perceptor will start to come around. Now that I know the whole story... I just may be able to offer more help myself."

Standing up again, the labrador sighed, looking guiltily to the side. "I suppose you should go get the boys then... You said you'd dropped them off for their regular classes, right?"

The bulldog nodded, getting up as well. He stared at the old autodog, trying to smile through his tears. "Thank you Ratchet. For all your help."

"Anytime, pup," Ratchet replied, the corners of his lip components lifting in comfort. "I'm sorry I've been so hard on the both of you over these years."

Wheeljack said nothing to that, waving his servo nonchalantly as he turned and shuffled for the door. Pausing, the engineer glanced over a shoulder plating uncertainly, his servo tight around the door knob. "I...I don't know if it really matters at this point, Ratchet," he mumbled. "But... Perceptor was fourteen when he gave birth to the twins. Just thought you should know before you try anything."

Ratchet felt his knees weaken beneath him as he sat back on the edge of his desk, staring disbelieving at the door that closed being Wheeljack as he left.

Perceptor...

Perceptor had really only been that young?


	13. Chapter 13

Waking was a gentle affair. Warm and comfortable, the yorkie rose quietly, pushing back his egyptian cotton sheets and stretching languidly before sliding out of berth completely. His first destination was to the bathroom, where he set about to filling the bathtub with warm water; pouring a cap of his favourite oils into the bubbling water and heading back out in his berthroom while he waited. A knock at his door surprised Mirage.

Grabbing his robe, he padded through the condo to his front door. He hesitated for a moment, his servo hovering above the knob, before he told himself to stop being silly and open the slagging thing. Making sure the sash of his robe was cinched tightly closed, the autodog pulled the door open; a polite smile on his faceplates to greet his unexpected visitor.

It was quick to fall when he found no one waiting on the other side.

"Hello?," Mirage called, leaning out the doorway. The hallway was empty. Something clinked against his pede as he started to pull back; surprised, the yorkie glanced down, shuttering his optics at the little potted plant set at the foot of his door. Mirage crouched low to inspect the plant, finding a little note tied to the pot's girth with blue ribbon. Recognizing the messy scrawl, the autodog's spark immediately swelled, a soft smile pulling at his lip components.

It was only by chance that the blue mech was glancing upwards at that moment, catching sight of another type of note -this time, taped directly to the front of Tracks' door. Confused, the yorkie scooped up his gift, cradling it to his chassis carefully as he padded across the hallway; reading the note quickly, before peeling it off of the wood.

"Tracks?" He knocked at the door. "Tracks? Are you in there?" Mirage waited a klik before knocking again, becoming slightly annoyed. His irritation was quick to turn into concern when he heard something crash on the other side of the door.

"Tracks? Tracks, are you in there? Is everything alright?"

The autodog shifted the pot in his arms, reaching for the doorknob in his panic. He didn't even bother to acknowledge that it was surprisingly unlocked, as the yorkie rushed into the apartment; dropping his gift haphazardly on the coffee table in the living room as he hurried for the berthroom. "Tracks?," he called anxiously, "Tracks? Are you alright? It's me- Mirage!"

For a moment, Mirage was stunned by the nightstand filled with empty wine glasses, its circumference and half of the bedside littered with the accompanying bottles. He was quickly shaken from his reverie though when he heard someone retching in the next room. Cautiously, the yorkie crossed the room, peering into the bathroom. "Oh my...," escaped the blue mech.

Tracks, dressed in crinkled clothes from the night before, had his face shoved into the toilet as he retched; ears flattened against the back of his helm as he trembled and a champagne bottle clutched tightly in one servo. The horrifying sight of his friend so disheveled and unwell would be enough to make someone nervous -especially if they knew what Tracks was like on a regular basis.

Mirage walked into the bathroom carefully, wary of the wet tile floors (no doubt, what had attributed to part of the crash he had heard earlier) as he approached the pomeranian. "Tracks, Tracks...," he said softly, "Tracks, it's alright. I'll help you." The ex-Noble was dutifully ignored as the other escort continued to purge his tanks, which was fine with the yorkie entirely.

He honestly wasn't sure if his frazzled circuits could handle having any of Tracks' attention on himself at this moment.

Rubbing uncertainly at the taller autodog's backstruts, the blue mech knelt behind Tracks, one servo still rubbing his shoulder plating while the other one struggled to undo the pomeranian's iron-clad grip from around the champagne bottle. "Come on, give me the bottle," he muttered exasperatedly, just as Tracks' fingers loosened around the bottle's neck. With a relieved sigh, Mirage stood up, setting the bottle onto the far side of the counter before grabbing a wash clothe and soaking it with warm water.

It was silent for a little bit afterwards; once in a while, the yorkie pressed the clothe to the pomeranian's brow, fingers stroking downcast ears unconsciously. Shivering one last time, Tracks pulled his face from the bowl, his intakes rattling as he struggled to even them out. Patting at the other escort's brow one last time, Mirage rinsed out the clothe and soaked it with warm water again, handing it to the more aware mech.

"...I feel like slag...," Tracks groaned, as he took the clothe offered, wiping at his mouth; spitting one last time into the toilet.

"I wonder why," the blue autodog clipped dryly. He took the wash clothe back from Tracks, tossing it into the sink, turning his focus back on the pomeranian. "C'mon," he said, reaching out and grabbing one of the multi-coloured mech's arms, "Let's get you up."

Tracks was wobbly as Mirage pulled him to his pedes, and yet he still struggled weakly in the other's hold. "I'm fine," he snapped tiredly, as they shuffled out of the bathroom.

The attitude was unappreciated. "Oh, you're fine?," the yorkie growled back sarcastically. "Really, you are perfectly fine? You just had your helm stuck down the toilet, puking your gears out!"

Tracks finally managed to tear himself out of his friend's grasp. He stumbled as he tried to stride forward, but did not fall; strutting like an injured chicken towards the living room. "Please Mirage!," he sniffed, "Give it a break, will you? I just got a little drunk, alright? It happens sometimes. There's nothing wrong with getting a little buzzed on a saturday anyhow."

Mirage followed crossly. "It's thursday..."

Collapsing on the couch, Tracks dug between the cushions, pulling out a slim bottle of high-grade. Before he could even twist off the cap, the ex-Noble was pouncing, slapping the pomeranian's servo and ripping the bottle from him. The hungover mech made a swipe for his stolen drink, but missed; giving up, he slumped against the couch, helm tipped back on the cushions.

"Well, all the same! Stop nitpicking," Tracks replied. "I am a grown mech and you are certainly not my creator."

The yorkie refrained from confessing how lucky he felt not being the other autodog's creator. Stashing the bottle in a potted fern beside the loveseat, Mirage turned back to the pomeranian, arms crossed over his chestplates as he glared at Tracks. "Fine, whatever," he scowled, "I apologize for being concerned then. And here," he held out the note he'd almost completely forgotten about now, "A letter from the house mother for you."

The other escort tilted his helm, peering at the fallen Noble with half-shuttered, dim optics. "...What are you talking about?"

The yorkie didn't bother to stop his optical sensors from rolling. "I'm talking about the note so graciously left on your apartment door, that's what." He shook the paper in his servo for extra emphasis. "What happened? Did you forget to charge your cell again?"

Tracks frowned, but did not reply to the jab. He sat up with muffled groan, grabbing the letter out of Mirage's servo with more force than necessary, glancing at it quickly before looking back up at his friend. "And just what would bring you out in the hallway anyhow?," the pomeranian asked. "You're not dressed to go out, unless you're starting a new fashion statement."

He gestured to the smaller autodog's satin robe and his cashmere pajama pants.

Blushing, Mirage double-checked the knot on his robe, trying his best not to fidget under the other's teasing stare. "For your information," he answered testily, "I was picking up something that had been left for me. I just happened to notice the note there after."

Tracks leaned forward more, his free servo cupping under his chin while a devious smirk pulled at his lip components. "'Picking something up'? Picking up what, 'Rajy? A gift?" The pomeranian finally took notice of the plant sitting on his coffee table. Shuttering his optics slowly at the pot, he asked, "...is that it there? That little half a twig in that teeny, tiny, bland pot?"

"It's called a Bonsai Tree," the yorkie snapped, scooping up the plant quickly and holding it to his chestplates, as if to protect it from the other autodog. "And I happen to think it's gorgeous, not to mention refined and thoughtful."

He bristled at the dry look Tracks was giving him now.

"Don't you start with me, Mr. Alcoholic!," Mirage growled, the last of his patience completely depleted. "You'd better straighten yourself up and stop acting like such a booze binger, or the next time you're on the bathroom floor, it'll be in some serial murder's -oh, Primus be slagged! My bath!"

With a muted yip, the blue mech turned and ran from the apartment, reminded of the water he had left running in his own condo. Unconcerned as he continued to float in his post-drinking haze, Tracks merely looked down at the note half-crumpled in his servo; squinting as his bleary optics attempted to read the crisp lettering.

**xxXxXxx**

"_I know your secret."_

_Rodimus shifted on the berth, pulling the blankets over his exposed interface equipment before turning his helm to the kittycon. His optics were narrowed, lip components pulled back slightly to bare his dental plating. Two sharp canines reflected sharply in the dim lighting of the room. "What are you talking about?," the autodog hissed._

_Blackout smirked at the other's acidic tone. "I'm not as dumb as everyone thinks I am. After all, it's not that hard to see why you want me." One clawed servo wandered over to the golden retriever, pawing at the beautiful curve of the other's aft. A groan escaped Rodimus' vocalizer. _

"_S-stupid cat...," the autodog growled.  
><em>

_The panther licked his lip components at the writhing autodog on the berth, feeling his own interface equipment begin to heat up. Rodimus offlined his optics, tugging the blanket off as he ground into Blackout's paw, pushing for more of that delicious touch. "Glad you...mmmm... like it so much," the kittycon purred huskily, red optics committing the erotic sight to memory. "But you can't avoid the truth that easily, mutt."_

_Rodimus growled at the nickname, servos reaching up and grabbing at the larger mech. With surprising strength, he pulled the panther down onto the berth, flipping their positions so he straddled the kittycon. "What's... ohh, oh Primus... y-your po-point?," the golden retriever asked. _

"_So hot...," Blackout growled, using both servos to grasp those condensation-slicked hips. "T-this arrangement of... ah, o-ours exists o-only because... hah, mmmmm, ah... o-of my s-spike," the kittycon continued, vocalizer hitching as he aligned the trembling Rodimus, pulling the slim mech down. Panting wantonly, the autodog scratched at the other's chassis, trying to gain purchase against the pleasure that wracked his systems._

"_Mmmm... so lovely...," the panther rumbled. Such beautiful heat... it was almost sinful, really. Blackout dragged his claws up Rodimus' chassis, causing the autodog to buck erratically in his lap, making them both cry out in bliss. "Y-you can re-really take a-aahhhh... a s-spike," the kittycon smirked. The golden retriever screamed at the sudden assault, optics onlining as he arched in the larger mech's servos. Blackout's smirk grew at the cry._

"_I-if it weren't f-for my spike, we w-wouldn't be doing this. I know t-that. B-but I'm fine be-being the re-replacement. A-after all," the kittycon pushed upwards again, drawing a keen from the other mech's lips. "I s-still was t-the first t-to break yo-your seal. I-i was... ahh, hah... the only one t-that can satisfy y-you now. S-so, mmmmm, t-tell me... who is it t-that you c-can't have?"_

"_S-shut up!," Rodimus moaned._

"_T-they say I'm stupid... b-but I know," Blackout smirked, glossa sneaking out and licking at the neck cables that came within reach. Rodimus shivered against his chassis, but did not move, moaning and grinding for more attention. "G-go ahead, mutt. Ahhhh... s-scream fo-for your da-daddy; p-pretend that h-he's the one i-interfacing with you t-then. I won't mind."_

_Pale, blue optics glared at him before they shuttered completely as the autodog reached his sixth overload that night._

**xxXxXxx**

"B-big Brother Rodimus, you... okay you?"

The golden retriever shook his helm slightly, coming out of his thoughts, his gaze falling to the two younglings sitting on either side of him. They were currently in the lounge room, the lesson for today supposed to be table manners and the different uses for the various silverware one might find at a social event. Unfortunately, Rodimus couldn't keep his processor on the present.

"I am... My apologies, boys," he sighed, "I have other things on my mind."

"Things bad?," Jetfire asked quietly. His brother's ears drooped a little anxiously.

Rodimus shuttered his optics momentarily at the question, before shaking his helm again, smiling in what he hoped was a comforting manner to the twins. "No, just... just thinking about some adult things. I'm sorry. They're not that big of a deal, and yet I'm worrying you over them needlessly."

"O-okie for dokie...," the hybrids answered, turning uncertain gazes to the table.

It must have been apparent that he was lying. The autodog would have sighed, but that would only draw Jetfire and Jetstorm's attention further, and Rodimus just couldn't explain himself to them. How could he expect two inexperienced younglings to understand casual interfacing or longing for someone that was out of their reach in almost every way possible? The golden retriever wished that Optimus would come back from sick leave, and that Sentinel would quit being AWOL at this moment.

He just didn't have the energy to look after both of the twins for several cycles straight...

For a klik, Rodimus sat there silently, one servo rubbing circles into the side of his helm while either Jetfire or Jetstorm fidgeted, playing with their silverware idly -he wasn't sure which hybrid was doing it, with his optics offlined, but he could hear the delicate clinking echoing loudly in lapse of conversation.

"I think...," the red mech started shortly afterwards, onlining his optics to find both of the twins had straightened up in their seats the moment he had spoke, "Maybe it's time for a break. Please, stay here boys, and I'll go get us some lunch, alright? I'll be back shortly."

"Brother Rodimus," Jetfire piped up as Rodimus rose to his pedes. "We... it alright be we use terminal?" The orange youngling pointed to a spare computer sitting at the back of the lounge, just behind the sitting area.

"For doing homework for Uncle Optimus!," Jetstorm added quickly, as if he thought his caretaker might deny him the privilege. At this point, any way the hybrids could entertain themselves that didn't include them running off was fine by the golden retriever.

He just needed some time to think about his visit the other night with Blackout without any distractions.

"Go ahead boys," Rodimus nodded, pushing in his chair, to the younglings' joy. "I'll be back shortly..."

Jetfire and Jetstorm barely waited until the autodog was out of the room before they were leaping from their seats and racing for the computer, dropping into chairs heavily as the blue youngling's fingers flashed across the keyboard, bringing the aging terminal out of stasis. "You find place of home certainly, brother?," the other hybrid asked, pulling a folded magazine page out of his pocket.

He unfolded the paper, smoothing out the creases as he pressed the article to the table, Starscream's image starting back up at the twins.

Jetstorm nodded as he pulled up a search engine, sparing a torn look at the picture of his sire. "Finding quick home, then finish of plans to go," he replied, his fingers clacking away wildly.

Jetfire's ears sank low on his helm, his fists clenching in his lap. "I... I scared being is, brother. If what... if what we doing right not? If what is mistake?," he mused softly, gnawing at his fingertips anxiously. "Be of may we stay... w-we..."

The other youngling quickly grabbed his brother's servo, giving it a comforting squeeze. "Fine being it," Jetstorm assured, his visor locked with his twin's optics. "Do of this then... then thing of every be okie for dokie..."

The orange hybrid hesitated, but after a moment he nodded, placing all of his faith in his twin's words. Unwinding their servos for the time being, Jetstorm turned back to the computer, his visor dimmed contently as he hurried to scour through the search engine. Jetfire sat beside him silently, picking at his fingers idly and casting nervous looks over his shoulder plating every few astroseconds; his spark puttering erratically with his growing anticipation.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks wanted to leave the room the moment he entered. "Sit," Flare-up growled, as the pomeranian took one step back.

Refraining the urge to rub at his aching helm, the escort stepped forwards, plopping down in the free seat as commanded. The femme folded her servos on top of her desk, leaning forwards testily. "You...," she began, "Have been missing for the past few days. Where have you been?"

"On the contrary," Tracks replied hoarsely, "I haven't been missing, I've just-"

"Silence!," Flare-up snapped. "I've already talked to our security staff and your floor neighbour... You've spent the last few days in and out of the condo, drunk out of your processor, and apparently your apartment reflects this new booze binge diet that you've adapted recently as well."

The pomeranian tensed slightly at the spoken truth. That traitorous yorkie! Before he could voice any further protests though, the jack terrier was continuing.

"I think you seem to forget that this is place of business, Mr. Tracks," the femme growled lowly, leaning forward in her seat; her optics narrowed and flashing in anger. "Your home, safety, food... all of that is covered by the Agency, and as such you have a responsibility to the business and its clients. What you do on your own free time matters not to me, but your over-excessive drinking habits have made you absent for three of your appointments these past few days -appointments that I had to reschedule with other escorts at the last minute to appease your angry clients!"

Tracks did his best not to look either surprised or upset.

"Keep this behavior up and I will have you removed from this agency! I have no need or time to waste on selfish, spoiled mutts who won't work," Flare-up threatened. "Do you understand?"

"I... I completely understand," Tracks answered, sitting up straight in his chair. "And I apologize for my indiscretion... I have not been feeling well, I suppose. A few drinks made it easier to forget about this cold I seemed to have caught."

The jack russell terrier shuttered her optics slowly at the excuse. "A cold, you say?," she hummed in contemplation. Flare-up leaned back in her seat, silently studying the mech. Tracks endured it patiently for a klik, but his patience was thin this orn. It didn't take long for him to get annoyed with his employer's quiet, wishing that she'd hurry up and release him so the pomeranian could go back to his apartment and spend his hang-over buried under his comfortable sheets.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the femme was turning her chair around, rising to her pedes and heading for the filing cabinet behind her desk. "Very well, Tracks. If you are feeling unwell, then you can go see the visiting vet tomorrow afternoon," Flare-up said, opening a drawer and flipping through folders, "Miss this appointment though and you can forget about your future in this company."

"Fine...," he gritted, rubbing at his optics as a particularly painful throb started behind his forehead.

"Go sober up," the smaller autodog dismissed, sitting back down at her desk, flipping open the thick folder she had withdrawn from the cabinet and opening a program on her computer. "And stay away from the alcohol for the next few days."

Not even bothering to mention that such a suggestion was unnecessary at this point, the pomeranian rose to his pedes, gratefully sliding to the doorway; reminiscing on his soft, downy comforter and the blessed numbness a flute of champagne could give his aching processor.

**xxXxXxx**

The apartment was dead silent when he entered.

"Percy...," Wheeljack called out softly, "I'm home." He took off his jacket, hanging it in the closet, switching on the apartment lights as he headed down the hall. It was no surprise to the autodog that Perceptor still laid in berth, facing the wall, his optics online but unseeing.

The engineer had put him in here earlier in the orn, hoping that a change of scenery might help the border collie come out of his trance, but evidently such a hope had been foolish. His fist curling against the door frame, Wheeljack refrained from punching the wall, staring at the floor as coolant collected along the edges of his optics.

In his depression, he almost missed the clicking of the door as someone else entered the apartment.

"B-boys?," the bulldog called hoarsely, "I-is... is that you?"

"Being is," came the little whimper in reply. Wheeljack lifted his helm a bit, seeing Jetfire and Jetstorm standing at the other end of the hall. They were holding servos and both looked distressed. "I-is... being is m-mommy better?," the orange youngling asked, his optics hopeful.

The engineer was silent, and the twins lowered their helms in response to the unspoken truth.

"L-listen, umm," the autodog cleared his vocalizer roughly, stepping away from the berthroom door. "Why don't you two g-go in; see Perceptor. I'm sure h-he'd like your company. I-i'll get us something to eat i-in the meantime."

Jetstorm nodded his helm quickly at the suggestion and tugged a hesitant Jetfire forwards. Wheeljack watched as the hybrids squeezed past him, wanting to pet their helms in reassurance, but unable to bring his servo up and even offer them that small comfort. His optics dimmed as he saw the two younglings approach their carrier's berth slowly, choking up at the sad display of the border collie lying there so lifelessly. It seemed like forever before either of the twins were able to take even a step forward again; when they did, they walked slowly and cautiously, as if they feared breaking Perceptor further in his already fragile state. Gently, Jetfire and Jetstorm crawled onto the berth, curling around the scientist, and cocooning him within the safety of their limbs.

Seeing this only furthered the bulldog's feelings of alienation.

Reaching forward, Wheeljack closed the door shut quietly, before heading back up the hall and to the kitchen. He stared up at the cupboards for a moment, then decided that he couldn't cook anyways nor did he have the energy for it. Grabbing his keys, and making sure he had his wallet on him, the engineer headed for the apartment door, figuring that greasy fast-food would have to suffice.

**xxXxXxx**

First Aid was surprised to see that Ratchet was still in his office when he came in to put away some documents. "Sir...? I thought you were off shift at eight?," the australian shepherd said, posing it as a question to note his confusion. After all, his superior was never one to linger after work unless something needed his immediate attention.

"Has... has something happened with Perceptor, sir?"

Ratchet finally glanced up from his paper work at the inquiry, fixing a flat look on the smaller mech. "Have you been talking with the nurses again?," the vet retorted.

First Aid was unable to quell the blush that rose, making him guilty as charged. Sighing, Ratchet waved dismissively at any forth-coming excuse, not interested one bit at the moment. He turned weary optics down to his paper work, reaching for the mug on the left side of his desk.

"In a way... yes," the older autodog answered, as his subordinate came closer, setting his load of folders onto the labrador's desk. "Things have... gotten worse, as I suspected that they might. Unfortunately, I would not have foreseen the conflict stemming from the supposed "return" of Perceptor's past demons. Fourteen... how the slag does one cope with pregnancy at fourteen...?!"

Ratchet sighed again, tipping his helm back to chug his oil. He paused, looking back down, realizing just then that the cup was empty. With a low growl, he put the mug back in its resting spot; a servo rising to rub at tired optics instead.

As surprised as he was by this slip of confidential information, First Aid wisely decided not to press on the matter further, more concerned about his boss' well-being at this time. "Sir... Sir, that is certainly spark-breaking to hear, even more so that Perceptor's condition seems to have worsened since," the white mech said, his servos grasping at Ratchet's shoulder plating, "But, sir, you won't be able to do much good if you stay here, wearing yourself down to the wiring. Now, I've got a practitioner's license too, sir, and I'm saying you need to go home and rest. Save these troubles until morning, sir."

The vet relented to his younger companion's pestering, rising from his seat, and, with First Aid's help, shuffling for the door. "I'm not sure if I will get much rest, kid," the labrador vented heavily, as he allowed the smaller autodog to drape his coat on his shoulders and get his hat. "...I can feel a storm brewing..."

Smiling wryly at the statement, the australian shepherd opened the door and gently pushed Ratchet through. "Here, sir," he replied. "There's always some sort of storm brewing. What matters most, is the rainbow that comes after, and the sunshine of a brand new day. And sir... the storm eventually has to pass, remember that."

Ratchet stared at the First Aid; optic ridge raised in subtle disbelief at the wise words his subordinate had just said. Making a non-committal sound in response, the older autodog nodded stiffly at the other mech, before turning and heading out of the office; wondering if there would be a happy ending at the end of this storm... or merely ruins of shattered lives.


	14. Chapter 14

The creaking of the door drew Wheeljack's attention as he tried to tip-toe down the hallway silently. "Oh... boys," he whispered, attempting to be cheerful. He gave up as soon as he heard the flatness of his own vocalizer. "I'm sorry... I must have disturbed you. Why don't you go back to bed?"

"N-no, is... sleep not could," Jetfire answered, shutting Perceptor's door closed the rest of the way. His brother glanced down mutely at the portfolio in the autodog's servos.

"Uncle Wheeljack... y-you go?," the blue hybrid asked, lifting his visor to Wheeljack's optics. The engineer sighed at the terrified look both of the twins adapted at such an implication; reaching forward, he used his free servo to scratch at each of their ears, opening his arms wide to accept the younglings as they stepped forward for a hug.

"I was only going to go to the lab," he explained to them softly. "Grab a few things, here and there, that I needed. I wasn't going to be gone long..."

The arms around his chassis tightened, ears flattened against the twins' helms as they pushed their faces deeper into the folds of Wheeljack's coat. Venting quietly, he rubbed at their backstruts, mulling his options over. He did not want to leave Perceptor alone for very long, if at all, but he also didn't want to upset Jetfire and Jetstorm by leaving, when they were already in such a delicate, emotional state. It didn't take long for the bulldog to reach his decision.

"Alright... go get your ponchos. It's supposed to rain."

The hybrids' pulled back suddenly, staring up at the engineer in stunned disbelief. He attempted to smile at them, his optics shuttering gently, to assure them that he meant what he said. Some of the former glow returned to their optics; hugging Wheeljack again quickly, Jetfire and Jetstorm pulled away, rushing for the entrance, and making a slight racket as they pulled their ponchos out of the closet. The bulldog's peace faded away as he joined the younger mechs at the door. Forcing another smile to his face, he held the door open for the twins, allowing them to exit the apartment first before he followed.

He stared at the lock for a nearly a klik, before he turned the key and walked away.

**xxXxXxx**

_It was a typical bar: dark, dingy, and ramshackle at best; standing on the outskirts of the city, open to everyone and anything. The best kind of place when you wanted business handled, or were looking for someone specific. Not a place where everlasting bonds were made, that was for sure, but that wasn't what these people were looking for anyways. If it was, they wouldn't have come here._

_Pulsing music hummed throughout the room; loud enough that idle chatter couldn't be heard, but soft enough that those mechs and femmes leaning in close to each other could speak without a problem. Streaming strobe lights, muted orange in glow, passed over the bar. The lights gleamed off a mech's slim frame, highlighting the golden-red fur of his ears and tail. The way he was dressed, the sleekness of his fur... he was hot, and the mech knew that. Optics trailed over his chassis and aft hungrily, glossas practically salivating in lust. The autodog was causing quite a stir this night. It wasn't often that they had such new, gorgeous prey. _

_One 'bot shifted in the shadows, stalking toward the sexy mech. Pale blue optics -like shards of pure_ _ice- glanced at the approaching stranger, an exasperated pout pulling at luscious lip components. This wasn't the first 'bot to try and flirt with him tonight. "Can I help you?," the autodog asked, turning his attention back to his drink. He swirled his glass of high-grade, certain that his lack of interest would quickly deter his would-be suitor. _

_The larger mech smirked toothily. Primus, even the mutt's vocalizer was sexy. That smooth, presumptuous tone... how lovely it would be to hear it screaming and begging him as he pounded that sweet aft into the most wonderful of overloads. "I'm sure that you could," he answered back. "It's not often that a pretty, little pure-bred like yourself can be found in a place like this."_

"_Maybe I just needed a place to have a drink," the autodog snipped._

_The lights passed overhead again, making the other's coat shine beautifully for a moment. Unable to help himself, the bigger 'bot inched closer, tail swishing against the dirty floor. He was looming over the bar now, casting an unhealthy amount of shadow over the hot autodog and the other patrons. "Oh, I might believe that... but this isn't the type of place for a casual drink. Sure I can't be of any assistance?"_

_The mech's entire helm turned in his direction this time. The put-off scowl slowly faded, a more contemplative expression coming to the autodog's faceplates as his optics scanned the other 'bot. Those scalding blue optics suddenly began to sparkle, and a devious smirk pulled at the 'bot's lip components; sending a thrill of heat spiking through the big mech's systems. Oh, this lil' pup was going to be a sweet one..._

"_Well now... maybe you can," the autodog breathed, hungry optics having yet to leave the other's frame._

_His engine rumbled with lustful mirth, cat ears twitching at the promise underlining those words. "Heh... sounds like we've reached an agreement."_

**xxXxXxx**

He looked up from the floor the moment the kittycon came waltzing into the room. "Ah, Blackout," Swindle greeted extravagantly, his arms outstretched with ridiculous flourish and his conniving smile wide across his cheekplates, "What brings you here?"

The panther growled lowly at the subtle taunt, shifting on his tiny chair. It creaked in protest and seemed to shrink to the floor an inch. "You know exactly why I'm here. I commed you before coming," he returned flatly, "Just as your tight aft demanded..."

The devon rex frowned at that comment.

Snorting nonchalantly, Blackout rose to his pedes, easily towering over the smaller kittycon. "You made me sit here for two whole, fragging cycles... The least you can do is pretend to be apologetic about it," he snarled.

"What?," Swindle sneered back, his fangs bared, "Did I interrupt you while you were fantasizing about your precious mutt?"

The panther's optics narrowed, informing the private detective and part-time merchant, that his associate had indeed been doing just that. Of course, Swindle wasn't aware that Blackout wasn't so much simulating fragging Rodimus as reminiscing on their first encounter. The very first step into this madness...

"Anyways," the devon rex shook a servo carelessly, circling around Blackout's hulking frame and slipping into the plush chair waiting behind his desk, "You mentioned you wanted to gather some more information on your frag-toy?"

The brown mech sank back into his abused chair, oblivious to its screeching whine of torment. "Yes...," he gruffed, almost embarrassed. One tan ear perked at the other's tone. Glaring at the interested look Swindle was now giving him, Blackout squirmed, turning his helm and staring at some abstract, black and white photo on the wall. It reminded him of those cards vets used to tell how crazy you were.

For a klik, the panther was silent. And then... "You told me he liked someone else. His sire to be exact," the kittycon whispered, denta clenched tightly. "He admitted it."

Swindle crossed his fingers before his face. "Did he? Did goody-goody Rodimus actually confess to be a sick, little daddy-lover?," he asked, a grin in his tone. "...Or were you simply just guessing at that because he refused to answer you?"

Blackout glared at the detective from the corner of his optic.

Sighing, the tan and purple mech sat up in his seat, leaning across the desk. "Blackout, buddy, we've talked about this. You're not supposed to be making answers out of other people's refusal to give one. It's one of the reasons why you keep getting slag wrong, and then end up the one duped in the end!"

"Well, he didn't have to say it in so many words!," the panther snapped, hackles raised. "He was caught off-guard when I mentioned it, and he kept acting all defensive... Wouldn't say a word more though, no matter how hard I pounded his aft..."

Swindle refrained from burying his face in his palm. "Well, as riveting as that is to know," he replied sarcastically, "That still doesn't change the fact that he hasn't come out and admitted to the fact that he is in love with his sire. Your opinion on the case doesn't really mean much. Honestly, I'm baffled why you care so much to begin with Blackout. He's just some mutt..."

Blackout turned his seat, resuming his glaring at the ink-blot hanging on the wall. "I want to know more. I want to know who his sire is... and I want to know within the week," the panther demanded, his fist clenching in his lap.

"...Why?," the devon rex asked after a long pause. "What good could possibly knowing do for you? If he's in love with his sire, then let him pine after the other autodog. He's sleeping with you, isn't he? That just goes to show that he's not getting anywhere with his daddy."

The larger kittycon said nothing to that; rising to his pedes and grabbing his coat. "I'll come back in a week with the cash. I want my information by then; no hold-ups."

Swindle sighed softly. "...You know my prices aren't cheap, right?"

Blackout shrugged, turning to the door. "One week," was all he rumbled, before he left. The detective vented again once the panther had left, servos pushing through the small paper work that was on top of his desk and pulling out a thin folder.

Honestly, when Blackout had been bragging at the bar last week about his new and sexy frag-toy Rodimus, all Swindle had wanted to do was sow some discord and maybe use the brown mech as a tool for digging up some more dirt on the seemingly perfect autodog. After all, tabloids paid top dollar for a story that could convict a good lawyer, rather than build him up. But one word of the mouth -that Rodimus apparently had some unnatural affections for his sire- weren't enough to make a story. He needed more than that.

Like, filthy habits, weird rituals, notebooks filled with crazy ramblings of their fantasized lives together... That kind of stuff. Unfortunately, the only two demerits the golden retriever had on him right now was the fact that he was 'facing Blackout on the side, and living the life of Mr. Perfect while he pined over some unknown mech.

Blackout's reaction to the comment, and Rodimus' supposed negative response to being told, had not been accounted for. The devon rex shook his helm, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor with one servo. It sounded like his associate was... getting attached. And in the business of digging up secrets, weapons distribution and illegal trade, attachments were the last thing you wanted to make.

But still...

Swindle was a man of business, and if his client wanted more information, then, well, the kittycon sure as slag was going to pull up as much as he could.

He just hoped that Blackout didn't blow up in his face if something came up that the panther wouldn't like.

**xxXxXxx**

It was raining heavily outside. Wheeljack shook his helm a little as he and the twins stepped into the science building, wishing that he had thought to invest in an umbrella or maybe just a hat. Pushing that thought to the side for the moment, the engineer turned to the younglings standing patiently behind him. "Alright, you two stay just here in the lobby, okay? I'm only going to head upstairs and see Mainframe to drop off some files." Wheeljack lifted the portfolio he carried in demonstration. "Then I'll grab a couple things from my lab and come back down to get you. You don't have classes today, so... so it'd probably just be best if we went back home."

Jetfire and Jetstorm stared back at him quietly.

Shuffling in place for a moment, Wheeljack decided not to bother asking if they were okay, opening his arms to give them a quick hug. The twins immediately rushed forwards, nuzzling the bulldog, their grip tightening for a moment before reluctantly letting go. Hesitating an astrosecond longer, Wheeljack turned; venting softly as he headed for the elevators. The two hybrids stood where they were for a klik longer, dripping onto the floor, before Jetstorm turned his helm to his brother.

"You getting?," he whispered.

The orange youngling glanced about cautiously, flashing the wallet he had gripped in his servo before sliding both back under his poncho. "Uncle Wheeljack notice not when taking," Jetfire mumbled back. His ears were drooping, his optics lowered to the floor ashamedly.

Jetstorm took the other twin's free servo, giving it a comforting squeeze. At his brother's touch, Jetfire looked up and silently the blue mech assured him that it was alright. Contrary to what Wheeljack might believe, they had not slept at all last night. Instead, they'd stayed awake, planning their next move while they watched over their unresponsive carrier. Waiting, they'd decided, was not an option. If they were to confront their sire, they had to do it quick... and that meant taking a bus out of the city, today.

Adults would not understand their plight; would not give them the assistance they needed.

...but how it weighed on their young sparks to be doing such secretive, terrible things...

"Come," Jetstorm said, pulling his brother to the door. Lightning flashed across the sky outside as the downpour increased. "Not rush, missing bus will. Afford can not."

Jetfire looked out into the storm for a moment, before pulling the hood of his poncho up. "Hurry must," he agreed. He pushed the glass door opened, wind howling and rain splashing up into their faces as they stepped out of the building together.

**xxXxXxx**

"Vet Ratchet, please return to the nursing station. Vet Ratchet, please return to the nursing station, please."

The labrador turned his helm up at the intercom, closing the folder he had currently been flipping through and grumbling as he turned to head back down the hall. Sometimes, he wondered what it was about the hospital that enticed him to stay for as long as he did, dealing with one ridiculous case after another. Already, he'd been here for eight cycles and had put up with useless parents stressing out over a simple cough that their bornling had, to idiot younglings who'd managed to damage codpieces by attempting crazy stunts without wearing the proper protection.

And now he was being beckoned by the P.A system to go see the nurses?

Slaggit, he could have been doing more productive things this orn, like trying to find a way to help his younger acquaintances, Perceptor and Wheeljack!

Grumbling, Ratchet approached the nursing station, a dark cloud hanging over his helm. The few nurses there immediately averted their optics, not willing to draw the vet's wrath. Only one did not -a small femme that swallowed her whimper as the older mech stopped before the counter, slamming his folders onto the wood top. "I-it's, u-um, f-for you, s-sir," she stuttered, sheepishly holding out the phone for the vet.

Ratchet's frown, if possible, increased.

Refraining from growling at her (bother him with phone calls? Something that could wait until after his shift?!), he took the phone, placing the receiver to his ear and asking a brisk, "What?"

Immediately, the voice on the other line broke out into panicked shouting and Ratchet's optics flared in shock. His frown tightened anxiously, and after a klik, the labrador handed the phone back to the nurse. "FIRST AID!," he shouted, turning down the hall and hurrying off.

The australian shepherd, at that very moment just assisting one of the interns, jumped at the yell, spinning around and running after Ratchet. "W-what, what is it, sir?," he yipped, trying to keep on the vet's heels.

The older mech did not answer him, increasing his pace, practically running into his office. First Aid followed after him, shutting the door behind him, his worried optics turning to Ratchet as the other autodog tried to access his terminal. "Confounded...slagging... machine...," the labrador growled. "First Aid! Get over here and make this stupid thing work, will ya?!"

"R-right away, sir!" The smaller mech dashed right on over, taking Ratchet's seat as the vet turned away and started shuffling through the datapads on his desktop haphazardly. "Sir, what am I looking for?," he asked after a moment, once the computer's screen had come up.

"Old file," Ratchet clipped distractedly. "Tell me, First Aid, what would you do if you were a young 'bot and your mother went into a depressed trance over some sire that you never knew existed, let alone met before?"

"U-um..." The australian shepherd was confused by the question. "I s-suppose, I might want to g-go and s-see this sire. F-for closure, or h-help. ...W-why do you ask, s-sir?"

The labrador picked up one of the datapads, squinting at it, before nodding. "Because," he replied, finally turning his helm to the smaller mech. "Jetfire and Jetstorm are missing... and I'm willing to bet my ridiculous salary that they've gone to see the very mech that created them. They're smart enough to figure out that he's the cause for Perceptor's current state."

First Aid gasped in horror at the news. "How-?"

"Wheeljack decided to take them to the lab with him, when he went to go hand in his resignation. They were in the lobby when he went upstairs... and they were gone when he came back down," Ratchet added grimly. "Now, hurry up, pull up a Mr. Megatron's file. If memory serves correct he came in here a few years back for food poisoning or something..."

"B-but sir!," the younger autodog protested. "Patient files are confidential! W-we can't-"

The vet's growl shut him right up. "R-right away, sir," First Aid conceded, turning his attention to the computer and rapidly pulling up previous patient files from the database.

Ratchet let his subordinate do what he needed while he strode over to the coat rack; pulling down his coat and slipping it on. "First Aid... you're not doing anything this afternoon, right?"

"W-what?," the australian shepherd asked, looking up from the computer. "O-oh, umm, not really sir. I was going to help the nurses catalogue some files, and-"

"Good," the labrador interrupted. He walked back to his desk. "I need you to cover my last appointment for the day," he said, holding out the datapad he had picked up earlier. "Everything you need to know is written here; address too. Now, how comes the search?"

Scrambling, First Aid grabbed a piece of paper and pen, scrawling down the location written on the screen. "T-there you go, sir...," he answered sadly, handing the address to Ratchet. "I s-still don't think this is r-right, but, whatever can help us to find the two younglings is a g-good thing, I suppose. You t-think they'll go here?"

Ratchet nodded solemnly.

"Thanks kid," he sighed, turning to the door and quickly crossing the room, "Remind me to give you a raise and some extended vacation time when I get back."

"... good luck, sir," First Aid whispered, smiling softly as the door shut on the labrador's exit.

**xxXxXxx**

The rain was coming down in sheets when they stepped down from the bus. Rushing under the small shelter placed at the stop, Jetfire and Jetstorm huddled close together as the vehicle pulled away from the curb, disappearing into the fog and darkness of this horrible day. "W-which way go?," Jetfire asked, trying to keep his denta from clacking together as a chill seeped under his plating.

His brother shifted, pulling a piece of paper out from under his poncho. "W-we...," he replied, shivering, "M-map says up g-go we." His visor lifted, trying to peer through the rain and bleakness in an attempt to read the nearest street signs. "M-must go t-to V-Vos C-crescent; h-house th-there."

The orange youngling opened his mouth to answer back, but a wicked wind howled right then, sweeping up from the ground and blowing gritty rainwater up into the hybrids' faces. "O-okie... for dokie...," he mumbled finally, wrapping his arms tight around himself, trying to retain heat.

Jetstorm nodded his helm stiffly, folding up their now-wet map carefully and tucking it away out of sight again. "L-let go t-this way," he said, stepping down from the shelter and crossing the street cautiously. Lightning cracked across the sky, making everything shine bright as day before the darkness settled in once more.

Not wanting to lose his twin in this nasty gloom, Jetfire stepped down as well, following after Jetstorm's lead.

**xxXxXxx**

"Ah, you must be Ratchet's replacement today," Flare-up smiled, gesturing for the mech to come forward. "The good vet was kind enough to call and inform us that he would not be able to make it today, but he said that the one he was sending over was the best substitute. First Aid, wasn't it?"

"Y-yes," First Aid replied, smiling meekly in return. "I-i must apologize, I-"

"Don't worry about it, sweetspark," the femme interrupted, waving a servo carelessly as she leaned back in her chair. "You seem like a very kind but innocent sort of 'bot. I'm sure our type of business must be very... peculiar to you. Hence, why we only request the hospital send us good, respectable and open-minded vets who won't be so quick to judge our employees. Ratchet has been acting as resident vet for our company for the past twenty years; he is very dear to us."

Anxiously, the australian shepherd sat down, resting his datapads in his lap. "Y-yes. Ratchet, sir, i-is very good at w-what he does... I was ever s-so honoured w-when he selected m-me to be his pr-protege." The white mech couldn't help the little smile that rose at that last statement, beaming with quiet pride. That really had been one of the best moments of his life.

Flare-up's grin grew softer in understanding, before the jack russel terrier snapped her fingers, getting back on task. "Now, the check-ups... I'm sure that Ratchet has already informed you of how the procedure works," she started, locking optics with the other autodog. "Patient confidentiality usually is between a 'bot and their present vet, but here at the Agency, it is essential that I, their employer, am also kept aware of my employee's well-being. An extra measure to ensure that my femmes and mechs are at their best at all times. So... how are we faring this week?"

First Aid squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, suddenly feeling very shy about getting down to the business aspect of his visit to this strange place. "W-well...umm," he stuttered, hesitating, "Yo-your employees are a-all well! N-no cuts, damages, viral infections o-or diseases... They're all perfectly healthy!"

The femme shuttered her optics, holding out a servo politely.

Noticing the gesture, the young vet immediately handed over the medical records he held; clasping his servos in his lap immediately after. "But?," Flare-up asked, her optics glancing over the files slowly. "I can hear a note of deliberation in your tone, First Aid. Not a really good thing for a vet to have... So, please, enlighten me if you would. Why the pause, if my employees are as good as you say?"

The australian shepherd bowed his helm a little at being caught.

"N-no, th-they are g-good... b-but..."

The femme lifted her optics, staring at him with waning patience.

"U-um... I-i'm a-afraid to s-say that one o-of the-them is...," First Aid stuttered, struggling to get the words out while he was being pinned down by the red autodog's firm gaze. "...u-uh, sparked..."

If it had been anyone else, in any other situation, the look of shock on Flare-up's face would have been comical. Instead, First Aid became more nervous and sank further back into his seat. "Who?," she asked tersely, shuffling through the files more intensely now.

The white mech cleared his vocalizer, flushing a little. "T-the, u-uh... p-pomeranian. M-mister Tracks, I believe?"

The stunned silence that followed was so tangible it was to be a rope wrapped tight around the young vet's neck cables.

"I... see...," the femme replied, a servo cupping her chin as she stared down at her desk thoughtfully. Afraid to interrupt her train of thought, First Aid remained silent; squirming every few kliks as the other autodog continued to ignore him. Finally, her optics flashed back up, staring at the australian shepherd.

"Thank you for your time, First Aid. This is... news that must further be reviewed and extra action taken for." Flare-up rose from her seat, walking around the desk and gesturing for the shorter 'bot to follow her.

Slowly, First Aid stood up.

"I-i...I hope I haven't caused any trouble. I mean-"

The jack russel waved off his concerns. "No, this isn't a terrible thing, First Aid," she said. "Just... surprising. Especially considering the situation. I'm sure you're aware of that. But do not fret; no harm will come to my employees. Other than that... I can tell you no more. Company policy."

Their destination was the door. "O-oh...," First Aid mumbled, glancing at the glass panes, then back to Flare-up. "W-well then, I shall i-inform Ratchet, sir, that everything has been taken care of and t-there's no major concern then. I'm sure he'll be back next s-shift to assist with check-ups and p-probably the expecting mother's c-condition."

The femme did not respond to that, opening the door and kindly leading the mech out into the hallway. "Do feel free to ask one of the chaperones to take you home tonight. It is terribly dreadful outside, and we would not want you to catch a virus from this storm, now would we, First Aid?," Flare-up smiled.

"U-uh... no, I suppose not," the vet answered, realizing the blatant change of subject for what it was. Understanding that he would no longer be shared any more information, First Aid smiled back politely in turn, bowing his helm. "Thank you for your time and have a good night," he said, before turning around and pressing the button for the elevator.

Waiting until the australian shepherd had boarded the lift and the doors had closed on his angelic little face, Flare-up strut briskly back into her office; sinking into her seat in one fluid, harsh motion. She gathered together all of her employees' recent health files, setting them all to the side... except for one. Tracks' file.

"Just a cold, huh...," she mumbled exasperatedly to herself.

A red servo picked up her cordless, punching in numbers quickly before pressing the phone to her helm. It rang, once, twice, before the other line picked up.

"Hello, Mr. Soundwave? This is Flare-Up, from the Agency..."

The femme spun her chair around, looking out into the flashing lightning and booming thunder of the storm wreaking havoc in the sky around her apartment.

"We need to talk..."


	15. Chapter 15

He knocked on the door, before entering. "Bumblebee... are you alright?" Optimus kindly kept his flashlight focused on the floor as he tried to peer through the gloom of the berthroom, noticing the younger autodog picking himself up off the floor. "Are you hurt? Do you need some band-aids or anything?," the secretary asked concernedly.

"Y-yeah, boss-bot, I'm fine," Bumblebee answered. Raising his flashlight now, the german shepherd shone its beam on the youngling, quickly scanning him for any dents or the like. One servo lifted to his face to try and keep the light from glaring into his optics, the yellow mech pouted, plopping back on his berth. "Boss-bot... you're gonna blind me!"

"Sorry... I'm sorry," Optimus sighed, quickly dropping the flashlight again. "Just this storm... I suppose I was a little caught off-guard by the power going out, just as you were, if the thump I heard downstairs was any indication. I was... worried."

Despite himself, the chihuahua smiled, kicking his pedes carelessly. "Boss-bot, you worry too much! If you hadn't taken time off of work, you wouldn't have been here when the blackout happened. Sure, I probably would have fallen just like I did," Bumblebee shrugged, "But I would have just picked myself right on up and went downstairs to get some flashlights and candles. I'm a tough pup... You don't have to constantly babysit me!"

The secretary didn't know what to say to that. "...you really don't need to call me 'boss', Bumblebee. I am your guardian; not your employer or your social worker."

Again, the youngling shrugged. "It's just familiarity, you know? Besides, you are the one who brings in the dough and feeds us and shelters us, so, yeah! You're totally the boss, Optimus." Bumblebee chuckled at the dry look he could practically see on the german shepherd's face through the darkness, kicking his pedes faster.

After a klik though, the yellow 'bot got quiet, his legs resting against the berthside. "...say, Optimus?," he inquired softly. "Well, I don't know, maybe it's none of my business, but... Are you ever going back to work? Is there a reason why you haven't gone back for a whole week?"

Optimus remained silent. "I'll leave this for you," the blue mech said, setting the flashlight he carried down on Bumblebee's dresser. "I'm going to go look for some candles." Turning, the german shepherd closed the youngling's berthroom door behind him as he left. The chihuahua stared silently at the wood for a klik, stunned that his guardian would just up and walk away without an explanation -something he never did!- over one simple question.

There came a shuffling from behind him and a dark green shadow climbed onto the berth beside Bumblebee. Surprisingly, the yellow mech did not react. "...big dog very strange...," the stranger buzzed in an odd fashion, like he a horde of insecticons filling his mouth. "He bumblebot's sire?"

The autodog snorted, rolling his optical sensors. "No. He's my guardian; he looks after me, like a parent, but he isn't my dad. I told you that already."

His guest said nothing for a moment, before he inched closer, his denta opening above the chihuahau's neck cables. "Bumblebot lucky still... Bumblebot not get caught doing naughty things with dirty stray," the other smirked, his purple optics glowing brightly in the darkness.

Shivering against the hot intakes brushing along his plating, Bumblebee attempted to turn his helm to the green mech, his mouth opening in protest. A breathless, choked squeak of "Wasp!" escaped him instead as he was shoved back onto the sheets; the stranger pinning him down and molesting his willing victim, just as he had been doing before Optimus had come upstairs.

**xxXxXxx**

The persian walked into the office, slowing his pace as he rounded the bend and his gaze fell on the jack russel terrier sitting stiffly in her chair. "Mr. Soundwave," she greeted with a scowl, "Please. Take a seat."

Soundwave acquiesced to the demand, curious as to what Flare-up wanted to discuss with him. The last time the femme had even called him, was to inform him that Tracks was unable to make their appointment, and if he'd be willing to have another escort for the evening. The kittycon had politely declined. Now, just as he was beginning to worry slightly about the pomeranian's status, she had asked to meet with the blue mech face-to-face immediately. It would be an understatement of any sort to say that the business 'bot lunged at the opportunity for answers.

Of course, that didn't mean he couldn't still feel unsettled by Flare-up's reproachful optics.

"Fact: you wished to speak with me directly," Soundwave began, when it became obvious after a klik that the autodog wasn't going to start.

"Yes...," Flare-up replied, her lip components pursed testily. "It has come to my attention that you've slept with Mr. Tracks recently during your last engagement. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem... except the terms of his contract have been changed at least a week before that, excluding him from any and all sexual appointments. So, now we have a problem Mr. Soundwave. Do I, or do I not, have you charged with rape?"

The persian tensed a smidge in his chair. "Fact: was... not aware of these changes. Status: have too much respect for your employee to force them into something that wasn't what they wanted or was not in agreement with their contract," Soundwave quickly explained. "Tracks: ...seemed willing and eager. Apologize: was out of bounds and was unaware."

The femme lifted one servo, turning her helm to her computer as she tapped away at the keys. "Unaware, huh? It shows here that you were dutifully informed by our staff about the changes in Mr. Tracks' terms of engagements, same as the rest of his frequent customers... Which makes me believe that you are lying, Mr. Soundwave," the jack russel finished, a low growl in her tone as she faced the kittycon. "But... I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt this time, considering Mr. Tracks' reputation and the cause for your presence here today."

Soundwave tried not to cock his helm as his interest piqued. Shifting an astrosecond, Flare-up crossed one leg over the other, folding her conjoined servos in her lap. Lightning flashed across the swollen skies behind her.

"The Agency's main goal, as I'm sure you're well aware of," the femme began, "Is to bring satisfaction and good company to our clients, while keeping our employees safe and well taken care of. It is through a mutual consensus that one of our 'bots goes out on an engagement with another for the evening. We work through a standard system of preferences, matching clients with escorts whose criteria fits with the one hiring them for a date. A final screening is done between myself and the escort in question before any appointments are made."

The kittycon nodded his helm. This was a basic and good practice to have. He was somewhat confused as to why he was being told about it, but Soundwave assumed it must have some importance to the matter Flare-up had referred to.

"I can tell you must be perplexed," Flare-up continued, a smirk pulling at her lip components. "But, everything has a point, Mr. Soundwave. Just as the fact that though our objective is to sell pleasure... it does not exclude us from the laws of nature."

Now the business mech was really sitting straight in his seat. Behind him, the tip of his tail was twitching. If the autodog noticed, she did not comment on it. Instead, she grabbed a file on her desk and slapped it down in front of Soundwave. "To get to the point, our employees have had their routine check-ups this orn and I'm afraid something very... unusual... came up in Mr. Tracks' stats."

Slowly, Soundwave reached forwards, opening the folder. His visor flashed with his surprise as he scrolled through the contents, seeing the highlighted comment in the vet's notes.

Flare-up rose to her pedes. "He's sparked... and the offspring is yours, Mr. Soundwave." The jack russel terrier reached forward, yanking the folder back and tucking it away in a drawer, drawing the kittycon's full attention. Leaning across the desk, she said crisply, "Business practice dictates that I ask you first, sir, which you'd prefer. Do you or do you not want this sparkling?"

The persian slowly leaned against the back of his chair, fingers lacing together before his chestplates.

**xxXxXxx**

It was dark when he began to take notice of his surroundings.

Quietly, the mech pushed himself off his berth, shoving his concerns about how he had gotten there aside for the moment. His processor buzzed loudly, pressing hotly on the back of his optics. Thinking, let alone asking useless questions, would be too much right now. All he wanted -all he felt he needed- was to move. Knee joints creaking from a few orns out of use, the mech stood, striding stiffly and silently toward the berthroom door.

The darkness of the hall beyond was interrupted only by the wane light coming from the kitchen. He turned, heading for its bare glow; the only heading in his otherwise unknown world.

He'd been asleep for so long, it felt, and even though he knew these were familiar surroundings... the mech still did not recognize them. The scuff on the wall, the berthroom door open a tad on the left, even the picture on the wall all were remnant's of a stranger's life. Pausing, he tipped his helm up, shuttering his optics at the single photo hanging; two little mechs reflected back, each with the servo of their creator on their shoulder plating.

That autodog... the one who stared back distantly, cold and encased in a prison of silence and numbing sorrow. That was him.

No. That wasn't right. It was the not-him. An unknown 'bot who merely wore his face.

He continued onwards, drawn to the light like moths to a flame; the world, a haze around him, nothing but cotton and quiet. He almost didn't hear the poorly muffled sobs until he'd stepped into the kitchen. Mutely, he watched as the other mech's shoulders shook; white servos gripping the counter edge tightly as the bulldog hovered brokenly over the sink. "...Wheeljack?," his hoarse vocalizer called, pulling the stranger's name from the depths of his memory banks.

He cocked his helm as Wheeljack jolted at the word, whirling around and gazing at the other in shock. "P-perceptor! I-i-i...," the bulldog trailed off, intakes heaving as he realized tears were splashing down his cheekplates. He hurriedly wiped them away with one servo, shakily stepping toward the other autodog. "U-umm... y-you're, uh, u-up. I-i'm glad! I, I mean..."

The border collie did nothing as the engineer came to a stop before him, a servo resting between his shoulder plating. "Y-you... you should be r-resting. You've... been through a bit of an ordeal. You need more time to-"

"Wheeljack..." Perceptor interrupted his friend quickly. He'd slept for too long already, he no longer wanted to do that. He had awoken specifically because there was something he wanted. Something he needed badly...

His processor recalled the photo in the hallway. Those two bright smiles shining on young, care-free faces... He wanted that. Craved for the love and freedom that embodied those two mechs. He needed to wrap himself in their essence and never be released from the sweet oblivion.

"Wheeljack," Perceptor felt his mouth open, the words pouring out without conscious thought, "Where are my sons?"

The bulldog's gloomy expression cracked and sorrow spilled from his optics. "I-i'm sorry!," he choked, a crack resounding through the kitchen as Wheeljack fell to his knee joints abruptly. He bowed his helm, fists curled on the tile as he sobbed anew, the very picture of brokenness, despair and remorse as he knelt half-bent over at the scientist's pedes. "I'm s-s-so, so-sorry! P-please... I-i... I l-looked, P-percy... I d-did, b-but, b-but they w-were g-gone... I-i don't... d-don't know wh-where..."

Wheeljack gasped, the tears coming harder as he pressed his very face to the floor in anguish.

But to Perceptor, he did not notice, for the fog was being swept from his processor and limbs just in time to send reality crashing again as pain erupted from his spark.

**xxXxXxx**

They were soaked by the time they reached the house. Trembling as the icy gust blew around their legs, Jetfire spared a quick look with his brother, before he was stepping up the marble staircase. Behind, Jetstorm followed him, helm tipped back and squinting through the relentless downpour at the large home before them. It couldn't be considered a mansion, but it was certainly grand enough, not to mention wide. He did not doubt that the family within lived comfortably.

And this is what their sire had left them for...

Swallowing back his nausea, the blue youngling quickly dashed up the last few steps, taking his rightful place beside his twin. Their chilled servos found each other in the rain, clasping together tightly as Jetfire raised his free servo; hesitating only a moment, before steeling himself and pressing harshly on the doorbell. The cheerful ring echoed faintly within the house, overwhelmed by a ruckus of noise from the 'bots within. A squeal sounded close by the front door, and the hybrids could not help the flinch that they both give.

The astrosesconds passed by, each more torturous than the last, and still there was no tell-tale sound of a lock turning or the handle dipping as someone grabbed it from the other side. Jetstorm glanced at his brother, but could only see Jetfire's lower lip component shivering in the darkening gloom. It wasn't hard to tell that the orange mech did not have the courage to ring the doorbell a second time... and Jetstorm did not think he could do it at all.

Anxiously, the blue youngling started, "B-be of may-"

A deafening thud interrupted him; helm whipping around, both of the mechs stared in trepidation as the knob twisted down, the door slowly pulling back and a rush of warm air brushing teasingly at their faces. Harsh, red optics stared back at them coldly.

"Who the slag are you?!," the kittycon growled, pushing his helm through the ajar door.

Jetfire and Jetstorm shuttered their optics idly. The youngling before them couldn't have been much younger than them, maybe about a year or two, and yet they were stumped and even a little anxious from his aggressiveness. The kittycon looked just like their sire... Denta bared as lip components twisted back in a snarl, the blue mech opened his mouth to speak to them again when a screechy vocalizer pierced the air. "THUNDERCRACKER! WHAT ARE YOU DOING AT THE FRONT DOOR?!"

The abyssian flinched at the shout, slamming the door in the hybrids' faces. They could hear Thundercracker yelling something from the other side, before the door was yanked open again; this time, a tall, slender mech glaring down on them.

Starscream.

"Yes...?," the kittycon demanded, wiping his claws on his apron.

The twins stared, stunned into immobility, up at their supposed sire. Starscream was... beautiful. His magenta plating, his proud, raised black ears; his narrow, sharp red optics. He was an exotic kind of lovely, and it was hard to believe that his mech had been the one to create them. Yet, was he not also the one that had hurt their mother irrevocably as well? As the silence dragged on, the abyssian's glare increased, until his optics were mere slits on his face.

"If you're trying to sell goodies, I am not- WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

It was like a hurricane of emotions twisting up inside of them, burning with an icy sting that dug into their circuitry deep, freezing their spark and ripping all shred of logic from their processors. Wanting- needing- some sort of comfort, of connection, Jetstorm foolishly flung himself forward; wrapping his arms tight around Starscream's middle and burying his face into the other mech's chestplates. Jetfire's spark pulsed through the dark storm brewing inside of him, watching in horror as Starscream's expression changed from one of disdain to a snarl of utter loathing and disgust. Quickly, the kittycon grabbed the blue hybrid by the back of his neck, tugging hard and shoving the youngling away from him. It was only with his brother's quick response that Jetstorm was saved from tumbling down the rain-slicked steps.

Glancing over his shoulder plating as a deep voice rumbled from further in the house, Starscream stepped out into the chilly rain, slamming the door behind him. "How dare you?!," he hissed, claws bent crookedly at his sides. "Touching me with your nas-"

"You being sire!," Jetstorm shouted quickly, still having yet to rise from his seat of wet marble. The hybrid's hood had fallen back and now his down-cast ears were getting soaked as he turned his helm up, looking imploringly at the magenta mech. "Are daddy of ours! Believing must be."

Starscream's optics flared at the cry, anxiously glancing back at the house before he took a menacing step towards the twins. "First, you have the audacity to assault me, and now you're spitting bald-faced lies?!," the kittycon growled, slinking forward with each sentence. "I do not know where you came from, but I do not take kindly to two, miserable lil' strays coming up to my door and trying to stir up trouble. Did you say something to my son? Did you tell him some of your pathetic delusions?!"

Jetfire quickly pulled his brother up to his pedes, stepping in front of the stunned youngling and protecting him as their sire loomed over them. He could feel anger and sorrow and confusion warring in him so strongly, it threatened to show itself as half-processed vomit all over the porch. Trembles ran down his spinal struts, but whether that was from him or Jetstorm pressed tightly against his back, the orange hybrid couldn't be sure. "N-no," he croaked loudly in denial, servos raised in a placating manner. He did not want to upset the magenta mech, just as much as he wished to be heard and their dilemma taken seriously. "We s-say not of thing t-to him; o-only w-wanting to t-talk to you! O-our mommy i-is-"

A wet smack rang through the air, before thunder rolled heavily in the black sky above. Slowly, the younger mech lifted a shaky servo to his face; his fingers hovering over his dented cheekplate as he stared, wide and teary-opticed, at the ground below. Starscream looked unrepentant as he lowered his raised servo, snorting derisively at Jetfire's silence.

"So your carrier is the one to blame for your insolence... Well, you can tell that greedy, little mutt that I will not be coerced into paying a single dime to their sneaky, under-handed ways," the kittycon spat. "No one tricks Starscream into a con!"

"T-that not b-being...," Jetstorm hiccupped behind.

He was cut off as Jetfire finally reacted, lunging forward and shoving at the abyssian. Starscream shrieked as he slipped back, slamming into the door, the furious youngling snarling up into his face.

"B-brother!," his twin wailed, reacting a few astroseconds too late; tugging uselessly on the other's poncho.

"It being fault of you!," Jetfire screamed, pushing Starscream again. "You make of mommy sad! Y-you him hurting a-and then... then you us leaving! You big, s-stupid, ugly f...FRAGGER! Hate you I, hate, hate, hate-"

"GET OFF OF ME!," the abyssian yelled, wriggling, grabbing hold of an orange ear and giving a vicious tug. The youngling hissed, pulling back just as his brother tugged on his poncho one lost time, both him and Jetstorm tumbling back and rolling down a few steps before they could stop themselves. Panting weakly, the hybrids pushed themselves up, looking upwards as they saw sharp pedes stop before their faces.

Starscream glared down on the twins with all the hatred in his cruel spark, his claws picking slowly at his crumbled and soaked clothing, trying to smooth it back into place in a half-unconcerned manner. "I suggest you both leave," he hissed lowly, bared fangs glittering as lightning scoured across the sky. "I have never, nor will, bear life to such horrible, foul lil' brats like yourselves, and if I ever catch you coming near me and my family ever again, you will regret it!"

Jetfire bared his fangs in return, but Jetstorm merely grabbed his brother's arm and quickly pulled the both of them down the stairs. Glancing over a shoulder plating as they jogged into the stormy night, the spark-broken hybrid saw that the kittycon disappeared back into his home, shutting the door behind him, uncaring about the two younglings stuck out in the rain. The sight tore at Jetstorm's already withering spark.

Three blocks later, the younglings finally slowed to a stop, arms wrapped around themselves and plumes of fog circling around their helms as they cycled intakes heavily. The wind snarled as it raced down darkened streets, kicking grit and rain water up into their faces; increasing the chill racking trembles through their frames as the angry sky above upended torrential amounts of water down upon their lowered helms. For a while, Jetstorm and Jetfire only stood there, on that wet, gloomy street corner, being battered by the cruel weather on every side.

"FRAG!"

Whirling around, Jetfire kicked the nearest postal bin, screaming into the air as the metal box toppled and clanged down the sidewalk. The blue mech flinched at the shout, clapping his servos around his ears.

"S-stop!," he begged hoarsely.

The other hybrid merely growled, ignoring his brother in favour of stomping on the knocked over tin box, cussing and spitting low curses. "Evil that 'bot, him bad, him ugly...," the orange youngling snarled. "Making pay him I do. He mommy hurt, I hurting him-"

"STOP IT! NOW STOP!"

Jetfire jolted at the cry, turning around just as Jetstorm collapsed to the ground, servos clenching his helm and his face pressing into his knees. The surprised twin felt shame overcome him, only realizing just then the twisting, dark snake of despair echoing like a ghost in his angry spark, clenching around his fuel tanks and making him feel as if he would purge that very moment... Jetstorm's own feeling in this entire affair. The blue mech flinched as Jetfire tried to approach him, servos raised apologetically and his ears flattened against his helm.

"B-brother, I-i..."

"STAY AWAY!," Jetstorm screamed, folding into himself and loudly weeping. "N-no... m-more...," he whimpered, "P-please, begging... n-no angry b-be, no h-hurting be... pl-please..."

The orange youngling dropped to his knee joints, grabbing his broken brother and pulling him closer, coolant pooling in his optics and mixing in with the rain water. "S-sorries am," he choked, trying to speak steadily even though he wanted nothing but to bawl and hiccup just as much as Jetstorm was. "S-so... so-sorries. P-please, brother, b-be giving o-of forness... pr-promise n-not hurting you, a-am I... Be-believing m-must me."

Please, he silently cried over the bond, please, don't push me away. I need you so much right now.

Slowly, hesitantly, the blue hybrid uncurled from his ball, his shaking arms wrapping tight around Jetfire's chestplates and squeezing his twin tightly in his grasp. His aching spark pulsed, weakly, sending out the faintest echo of love and faith that he was capable of sharing this moment. Jetfire sobbed, glad for even the smallest wisp of affection from Jetstorm, clutching his brother back equally as tight; burying his face into the side of the other's helm and kissing his temple.

They were prepared to sit there in the pouring rain, until either the chill had frozen them completely or the storm washed away all of their pain, but light, close to the ground, cut through the darkness, shining brightly into their peripherals. Lifting his helm, Jetfire shuttered his optics blearily over a shoulder plating, watching as the car pulled to a stop a few feet away; the door opening and an unexpected 'bot climbing out of the vehicle.

Clutching his coat tighter to himself, Ratchet padded through the rain, for once a kind, if not worried, smile pulling at his lip components. "Found you...," he mumbled softly, a sigh of relief almost noticeable in his tone. The labrador extended a servo, the compassion having yet to leave his optics. "Come on, let's get you two home."

Jetstorm shakily stared up from the ground, hiccups escaping him as he tried to keep from crying again. At the promise of safety and sanctuary, the twins lept to their pedes, jumping Ratchet and wrapping their arms as far around the vet as they would go. Even as soaked and dirty as they were, the older mech did not chastise them; instead, resting a strong arm on each of the younglings' trembling shoulders, turning them towards the car and leading them through the rain and gloom to the warmth of the vehicle.

**xxXxXxx**

Wheeljack just wanted to curl up and die. He glanced up from the floor, looking up at the border collie sitting tersely on the living room couch, but was quick to drop his gaze when the scientist's dead, almost hateful, optics fell on him. He wanted to open his mouth and apologize, just as he'd been doing profusely for the last few cycles, but the engineer knew it was the last thing Perceptor wanted to hear. If anything, the smaller autodog probably just wanted him to get the frag out and never come back... and though, Wheeljack himself would gladly comply with such a demand, he was torn between his own feelings of self-loathing and an urge to make sure that Perceptor was okay. He couldn't even begin to think of how much he'd hate himself after, if the border collie hurt himself in anyway because of the bulldog's stupid negligence.

Venting softly, the white mech clenched his clasped servos tightly, as subtly as possible glancing at the clock set on the right-hand living room wall. It's little, black hands read that it was a ten kliks to midnight... Where was Ratchet? Had he found the boys? Or was he just as lost about what to do or where to go, as Wheeljack felt? Sucking back a fresh wave of tears, the bulldog lifted his servos, cupping his forehead as he felt his despair peak again. Oh, Primus, he prayed desperately, let them come home safe and sound.

The knock at the door was like salvation to the desolate mech.

Helm snapping upwards, Wheeljack glanced to the doorway, then back to Perceptor, but the border collie was staring ahead vaguely; ignoring the sound and the engineer altogether. Slowly, Wheeljack rose to his pedes, shuffling around the living room at a snail's pace, before padding quickly for the door. He was almost afraid that the few astroseconds he had spent deliberating had convinced their unexpected guest to leave. Tears sprang to his optics and his intakes heaved when he opened the door and was greeted with two young faces that he had been hoping to see again all orn. "T-thank Primus!," the bulldog wheezed as Jetfire and Jetstorm flung themselves at the engineer; hugging him tightly and refusing to budge. Wheeljack squeezed them back, cradling them tight in the circle of his arms, pressing his tear-streaked face into each of their helms and venting deep as a means to keep from bawling. Happy or not, he didn't want to upset the twins with anymore tears.

Still standing outside the door, Ratchet smiled, his shoulders slumping; just as equally relieved to get the hybrids home and back into the arms of those who loved them. But... "Wheeljack," the labrador spoke up quietly, drawing the other mech's attention, "Where's Perceptor?"

Nuzzling the younglings one last time, the engineer cleared his vocalizer heavily, optics dim as he lifted his helm slowly to look at the vet. Jetfire and Jetstorm pulled back a tiny bit as they sensed their guardian's tension. "H-he... he's in the living room. Ratchet...," Wheeljack mumbled painfully. "A-and... he's awake."

Before Ratchet could even look surprised, the twins were ripping themselves from the bulldog's hold, zipping around him and running into the living room. "Mommy!," they shouted, vocalizers crackling and tears welling freshly in their optics as a flurry of emotions filled their tender sparks. Ratchet and Wheeljack rounded the corner quickly, just in time to see the hybrids fall to their knees before the scientist; wrapping their arms around the rigid mech and hugging him tightly as they sobbed. If that wasn't surprising enough, the look of muted shock on Perceptor's face knocked the intakes out of the other two autodogs, especially when coolant rose in the border collie's own optics as he wrapped a servo around the back of Jetfire and Jetstorm's helms.

"M-mommy," Jetstorm wailed, pressing his forehead into Perceptor's shoulder plating, "S-sorries we being!"

Jetfire hiccupped, his dim and flooded optics looking up at the autodog beseechingly. "Pl-please, angry n-not be us wi-with! Wh-when h-hurting were y-you... We kn-know not else w-what doing!" His brother croaked, squeezing Perceptor tighter as the orange youngling struggled to explain their behaviour. "W-we not want o-of see y-you crying d-did an-anymore, a-and b-believing th-that sire m-mentioned y-you all c-could help."

The hybrid lowered his helm contritely, choking as a painful sob ripped through his chassis. "B-but wrong we-were being, m-mommy, r-really wrong were we!"

Jetstorm sniffled, trembling as he turned his helm up this time, allowing his brother to break down into tears. "A-and sorries w-we're so," he continued, clutching his carrier's shirt tightly, "F-for all th-these things b-bad doing a-and y-you scaring. S-so, so sorries..."

Perceptor shuttered his optics at the apology, his fingers circling a little tighter around the back of his sons' helms. From behind them, Ratchet placed a shoulder on Wheeljack's shoulder plating, catching the bulldog's attention and shaking his helm. The white autodog, who had been ready to jump in there and cut the twins' off -knowing that they weren't responsible for anything and shouldn't be the ones apologizing- mutely lowered his chin, backing down at the vet's silent order. The only sounds filling the room was the sobs and sniffles of the young mechs as they clung to their quietly weeping mother.

"B-but...," a voice whispered wetly after a klik. Both of the hybrids lifted their helms, wiping at damp cheekplates with frozen servos.

"Y-you not crying n-need do a-anymore, m-mommy," Jetfire said, "'C-cause, back a-are we!"

"A-and love so much y-you w-we are!," Jetstorm declared loudly.

The younglings glanced at each other, smiling, before turning all the love and tenderness in their sparks with the mech they held tightly. "T-that mean, old, ugly 'bot wanted us never," they continued, in perfect sync, "But w-will be okay it, us trust! W-we you love, and Wheeljack y-you loves, and Ratchet you loves, a-and all other uncles and b-big brothers ours of c-caring about mommy you too! Will be right o-of all we without t-that stupid sire, because..."

They paused, tones dropping into a hopeful, almost uncertain hush. "B-because got you us all have, a-and, that is you all need r-really..."

"Right?"

Perceptor's expression changed before all the prying optics. Apathy retreating for a moment, surprise and pain bloomed across his optics, quickly replaced by unbelievable relief, hope and joy. Tugging his sons closer, the border collie kissed each of their foreheads, before wrapping his arms tight around their shoulders and hugging them to his chassis. The younglings hiccupped at the unanticipated response, tears collected in their optics and purring in contentment as they nuzzled the autodog. A small, almost unnoticeable smile pulled at the scientist's own lip components.

Watching the beautiful scene unfold before him, Wheeljack felt his spark wither agonizingly in his chassis. Coolant was quickly coming to his own optics again, before a rough servo was squeezing at his shoulder plating. Fumbling, the bulldog hurried to hide the traces of his pain as he faced Ratchet, but the vet only smiled wryly, patting the younger mech's back roughly.

"C'mon pup," the labrador whispered, "Go join them. You are as much a part of this family as the boys are."

Wheeljack hesitated only a moment, before, deciding to act on faith, obeyed Ratchet and approached the other three mechs. He was not pushed away or glared at as he sat himself on the couch beside Perceptor; one arm wrapping around the border collie's shoulder plating, Jetstorm shifting accordingly, so now he was hugging both the bulldog and his carrier. The engineer's helm fins lit up with pure bliss, showering all four of them in a spattering of bright and warm hues.

"Guess First Aid was right...," Ratchet mumbled to himself as he continued to study the joy four 'bots exuded in the comfort and presence of each other. "Happy endings are possible."

Glad to see this makeshift family whole again, the labrador quietly turned, leaving the apartment to get some long and much needed rest of his own.


	16. Chapter 16

"...Who are you?," the yellow shrimp demanded suspiciously as he opened the door.

Sentinel growled at the youngling, confused by the other's presence; smirking when he saw the chihuahua step back a smidge in fear. "I could ask you the same thing," he replied, his short amusement fading quickly to be replaced by irritation. "What the slag are you doing here?"

The younger autodog scowled, stepping forward again and leaning up into the rottweiler's face as much as he could possibly manage. "I live here, slaghead! Why the slag are you here?," he retorted, throwing the security guard's words back in his face.

The only thing that kept the blue mech from yelling at the impudent brat, was the fact that he heard a familiar voice calling down the hallway. "Bumblebee? Who's at the door?"

"I don't know. Just some -hey!" Bumblebee rubbed his plating from where Sentinel had shoved him roughly, pushing the youngling to the side of the door and easily stepping past him just as Optimus walked into the entry way. Blue optics flashed in surprise, the german shepherd's ears perking adorably, before the look of stunned surprise erased itself from the shorter autodog's face to be replaced by anger.

"Get out of my house, Sentinel," Optimus demanded coldly, his lip components clamping down into a hard line.

"Ultra Magnus said you were sick," the rottweiler said, ignoring the order. Sentinel frowned. "You don't look sick to me."

"I'm warning you one last time: get out of my house, or I will call the authorities on you," the secretary repeated, the slightest growl in his tone now.

Sentinel growled fully in response, not heeding the threat as he stalked up to the other mech, looming over him intimidatingly. "I'm not leaving until I find out why the frag you're missing work, when you're not even ill to begin with! What? You avoiding me now, or something?!"

Optimus sniffed derisively, shaking his helm and taking a step back. "I don't need to explain myself to the likes of you, Sentinel. I'm-"

"A liar and a coward? Yeah; I know!"

"I am not!," the german shepherd snapped, finally losing his patience with his ex-friend. "Slaggit... stop trying to drive me into a corner, Sentinel and constantly put the blame on me! I'm not the one whose at fault here! Its you -all you- and you're sick, demented games that are responsible. I knew you hated me, but... why? Why you would dare stoop that low, u-using that 'bot l-like that, to purposefully t-try and make me upset..."

A small shuffling behind the adults reminded them of the other autodog still present. Looking around Sentinel, Optimus tried to smile at Bumblebee, but only managed a weary, half twisting of his lip components. "B-bumblebee, would you be so kind a-as to step outside? Please?," he asked.

The youngling looked uncertainly at his guardian, sparing a glare at the rottweiler. "... Are you sure, Optimus?," Bumblebee replied. "I can stay if you want. If you don't-"

"No," the red and blue autodog quickly interrupted. His optics were slightly glazed, giving him the appearance that he was about to cry at any moment. Torn, the chihuahua slowly turned about and walked out the door, respecting his foster dad's wish for some privacy. Only when the door had closed behind the youngling, did Optimus turn his attention back to his unwanted guest.

"Bumblebee, huh?," Sentinel grumbled suspiciously. "I didn't know you had a kid."

The german shepherd narrowed his optics at the accusation hidden in that statement. "Why, of course I did Sentinel. I got sparked back when I was in highschool. Didn't you ever notice?" At the other's growl, Optimus tightened his stance, folding his arms over his chestplates. "What do you want, Sentinel?," he demanded, patience gone.

Sentinel opened his mouth, but quickly shut it closed. He stepped back a little, shoulder plating hunched tensely. "I just wanted to talk," he answered.

It took all his effort not to sneer at the rottweiler. "Talk? Sentinel, you never just want to talk!," Optimus retorted. The secretary fell quiet, before sighing and letting his arms drop back down to his sides. As much as he wanted to, as much as he knew he had the right to, he wasn't going to deny Sentinel a chance to speak his piece. It just wasn't in his nature.

"...Why did you come here?"

The blue mech cocked his helm to the side, scowl deepening, before he opened his mouth again. "Like I said: to talk. I can't exactly do that at work when Jazz is playing bodyguard and you're all AWOL," Sentinel growled exasperatedly. "I can't believe you're playing hooky! I wouldn't have taken you for the type to slack off..."

Enough was enough.

"Stop it! Just stop it!," he shouted, stomping his pede. Optimus could feel tears burning in his optics, but as he glared at his ex-friend, he felt only the anger and injustice. "You've spent years -YEARS- hating me, degrading me or flat out just ignoring me. You forgot I even existed until we ended up working in the same building together, and even now, you know nothing about my life! How dare you than try to condemn me for things you don't even know about? Are you so slagging proud that you can't even admit that you are ignorant and apologize when you do something wrong?!"

"You and your twisted, conceited arrogance and masochism... playing games with everyone and their feelings... Well, guess what, Sentinel? I'm tired of it! I'm done with you and your stupidity!," the german shepherd shouted, storming up into the other's autodog space, one finger jabbing painfully into his chestplates with every punctuated sentence. "I'm done having you sit there, criticizing, analyzing and tearing down all my efforts and actions, demeaning them until they're absolutely worthless. I am an individual and my life means something to me! So why do you hate me so much for that?!"

Sentinel snarled as he was pushed back into the door, his servos curling into fists at his side. Hackles rising defensively, the rottweiler made to step back, when Optimus' final demand made him freeze. Optics flared in wild disbelief, the blue mech asked lowly, "...Is that really what you think?"

Optimus hesitated, denta bared and finger half-crooked into a claw. The question caught him off-guard, and for a moment, he didn't know how to respond. It was a mistake he shouldn't have made. The walls rattled as the secretary was slammed against them, Sentinel breathing hard and looming as he pressed the multi-coloured autodog into the plaster roughly. Snarling, Optimus writhed, falling back on his own defence training and aiming for the rottweiler's weak points.

"Fraggit!," his ex-friend roared as his in-step was smashed mercilessly, followed by a blind knee jab for his inner thigh. Sentinel shoved Optimus into the wall harder, denta snapping before the other's face, causing the german shepherd to pause his struggling as he twisted his helm to the side to avoid the sharp canines. "Well EXCUSE ME for not being a prat and snooping around in your personal files! It would have been easier, I confess, but despite all that you might think about me, I ain't that much of a bastard! Nor would I waste my precious time and coin on some whore just so I could mess with you!"

"Then why do it?!," Optimus screamed, his vocalizer cracking with a spit of static. His emotions were all over the place; strung-out and far more abused than he was quite capable of handling. At the moment, they were all twisting up within him and draining out of the autodog quickly, leaving him exhausted, hurt and ready to simply bawl.

Sentinel leaned back a tad, his expression changing for a klik, before the frown returned and the rottweiler tightened his grip around Optimus' wrists. "Why don't you think about it for an astrosecond, Optimus?," he said, ignoring the secretary's hiss and the way he started writhing again, "Stop trying to run from the truth! If you could stop being such a temperamental lil' pansy, maybe _you_ might realize I don't hate you as much as you think either!"

If it had been any other situation, the stunned look on Optimus' face, as he had his own words from two weeks back thrown into his face, would be a hilarious sight to witness. Instead, the security guard tightened his jaw before grumbling some half-felt curse under his intakes and pushing away from the other mech altogether. Quietly, the german shepherd watched as his ex-friend stormed out the door, slamming it behind him, without any further condemnations or snide comments said.

It took him kliks later to realize he was crying...

**xxXxXxx**

He fumbled his folders, almost dropping them all over the floor. "Y-you... what?," Rodimus gaped, turning bewildered optics to the other autodog beside him.

Ultra Magnus shuttered his optics in surprise, before frowning slightly at the response. Immediately, the golden retriever lowered his helm, offering a quick apology for his misconduct. "As I was saying," the dane continued, giving a short nod to show that he forgave the other, "I have kindly asked Sentinel to go see Optimus, and to ask if he'd be willing to come back to work within a couple days."

Trying to remain collected, Rodimus politely asked, "But, why Sentinel sir? Would it not have been better to ask someone such as myself?"

The older lawyer merely shook his helm, smiling wryly. "Alas, we've both been busy. There would not have been any time to go see the diligent mech, and I fear a comm would be impersonal. No, Sentinel seemed the most appropriate choice. I have heard that they are old friends."

As much as he wanted to, the red autodog wisely decided not to correct his superior. Childhood friends they might of once been, but it was evident to anyone paying attention that there was a palpable tension between Optimus and Sentinel. Something that had grown even darker and straining their relationship further this past little while. Whatever they were now, it was the farthest thing from 'friends', and Ultra Magnus giving Sentinel the other's address was a misguided move.

"...sudden, but it's necessary, you se-"

"Wait, what?," Rodimus interrupted, realizing that the other autodog had started talking again. Cheekplates burning in shame as he caught the disapproving look Ultra Magnus sent him, he said, "I-i'm sorry, sir, for m-my rudeness. Would y-you mind repeating that last bit?"

The great dane vented softly. "I was saying," he began, somewhat clipped, "That, though it is sudden, it's necessary to have Optimus return to work if he is physically capable of doing so. I will need someone to take care of appointments and forward all inquiries and the such either to my inbox or to you, depending on the case."

"Forward...?," the golden retriever mumbled. "S-sir... are you going somewhere?"

Ultra Magnus nodded, resting a comforting servo on the other's shoulder plating. "Yes. I will be out of town for a little while to see to some affairs. I shouldn't be gone for more than a couple weeks. If it does become necessary that I have to stay longer, then I will comm you to inform you of such."

Rodimus tried to keep the shock off of his face. "But, sir- I... Would it not be more beneficial that I come with you?"

The older lawyer smiled, as if his younger companion had said a joke. "Nonsense," he answered. "It's nothing more than a mere conference between select firms across the country. No, it would be too boring for you, I believe. Just some old 'bots talking about various legal demands and such."

"Besides," Ultra Magnus added, his gaze growing fonder, "I know that you are capable of managing things in my absence, son. I would trust no other 'bot to lead in my steads while I am away."

His mouth opened to protest, but how quick were those words to turn to dust on the tip of his glossa. The faith the old autodog had in him struck him hard, yet not nearly as violently as the title 'son' did. Resignedly, the golden retriever saw that he was trapped within the hopes and expectations that this mech had placed upon his shoulders... and he did not think he could escape them, even if he tried.

"Of course," Rodimus replied, slowly; almost flatly. "I promise not to fail you, dad."

"That's my boy," the blue mech smiled.

Inside, he felt his spark wither a little.

**xxXxXxx**

"Slaggit!"

Optimus fumbled the knife, dropping both it and the dish rag into the sink as he grabbed his other servo, staring mutely at the energon welling on the tip of his finger. He swallowed back the rest of his curses, turning on the faucet and cleaning the cut.

"...slaggit, Sentinel...," he grumbled, twisting off the tap violently and gripping the counter. "What the frag were you talking about?"

The german shepherd stared down into the sink, watching as his watery reflection bit its lip component, before turning its helm away. Coolant pricking at his optics, not for the first time that orn did he wonder why he even allowed Sentinel back into his life. The mech who had once been his most trusted and strongest ally... had become the source of all his recent pain.

"I d-don't... just..." Optimus growled, pinching at the bridge of his olfactory sensor as his optics began to burn hotter. He'd started dishes a little while after the security guard's impromptu visit, in an attempt to recollect his scattered thoughts, but so far the calming chore had only made him think more about the other autodog.

"Bumblebee... gotta get Bumblebee," the multi-coloured mech mumbled to himself, wiping tiredly at his optics and turning away from the sink. There was no more point in doing chores at this moment; they would not offer him reprieve from his own troublesome musings and he didn't feel like being alone any longer. "Bumblebee? Bumblebee, where are you?"

No answer came as he did a quick search of the house, but remembering that he had ordered the chihuahua outside earlier, Optimus turned and headed for the patio door. "Bumblebee, are you out h- oh!"

The german shepherd froze in the doorway, servo rising to his mouth in shock as he looked down upon the two younglings rolling about in the grass, servos and mouths everywhere. At his gasp, Bumblebee onlined his optics; giving a small yip of surprise, before wrestling the other youngling off of him. The autodog rolled away with a frustrated growl, but silenced himself as soon as he saw Optimus standing there, watching them, stunned. Before anybody could say anything else, the green chihuahua was scaling over the fence and disappearing from sight.

"U-umm... h-hi, Boss bot?," Bumblebee nervously smiled.

Sighing, Optimus gave the youngling a dry look before gesturing back into the house. "I believe there's a few things we should discuss, yes?"

Blushing in embarrassment, the smaller autodog scrambled up onto his pedes, trying to fix his shirt and cover the hickeys that no doubt covered his shoulder plating. "S-so, umm...," he started, shutting the patio door behind him as he stepped inside. "Your friend leave already?"

The secretary did not immediately reply, collapsing on the living room couch and venting heavily as he rested his face in his servos. At his guardian's down-trodden posture, Bumblebee padded closer, sitting on the floor in front of Optimus. "Boss 'bot? ...Optimus?"

"Listen, there's, umm...," Optimus exhaled, straightening up a little and looking at his foster son. "There's a lot of things you don't understand, and it's probably best if you don't know about them. The mech who came over earlier today... he is... was..."

"... he used to be your friend. Right?," Bumblebee asked after the older autodog had trailed off. He shifted closer, resting a servo on the german shepherd's knee. "I, uh, kinda found your photo album. You've got a few pictures of you together. You all seemed really happy then..."

Optimus shuttered his optics in surprise at the confession, his gaze both shocked and hurt. Trying to shake off the worm of guilt he could feel starting to slither in his fuel tanks, the chihuahua turned his helm to the side, thinking fast. "You know... I get that I'm young and all, and maybe I shouldn't be saying something, but...," he paused, scratching behind an ear self-consciously, "But maybe you should give him another chance."

"Bumblebee, please," the secretary sighed. "It's not-"

"Simple, right?," Bumblebee cut in. He sighed, tossing his helm back a little. "C'mon, Boss 'bot. Everybody's been telling me that my whole life, and really, not only does it get old after a while, but it also becomes irrelevant."

Optimus frowned, a flash of annoyance coursing through him. "You don't know our history Bumblebee, nor why I'm even upset with Sentinel in the first place. I think it's best that you stay out of this matter, and instead, let us focus on why you were out in the yard, being molested by some... some... some stray!"

The youngling shuttered his optics at the clipped reprimand, ears drooping slightly in shock. Horrified, the older autodog attempted to stutter an apology, his cheekplates darkening with his shame. "B-bumblebee, I-i, I di-didn't m-mean... I-i'm...

The yellow mech shrugged, his lip components quirked wryly. "It's alright, Optimus. I know you're not really upset with me. You never have been, and I doubt you ever will be."

"B-but..."

"It's Wasp, by the way."

"W-what...?," Optimus stuttered.

Bumblebee's smile grew a tad wider. "The stray. His name is Wasp," he clarified. "I'd like to tell you a story. Would that be alright, Optimus?" Uncertain, the german shepherd slowly nodded. Bumblebee made himself more comfortable, crossing his legs and setting his servos in his lap, before he looked up at the other autodog and began his story.

"You already know that I lost my parents back when I was really small," the chihuahua said, "And that I spent several years being bumped around by the system until I ended up with you. You know, I'll never forget that day when you came in. Out of everybody there, you picked me. And though I was an unruly lil' bugger, you still fed me, clothed me and gave me shelter; without a single word of complaint or demanding something in return. You were kind because you wanted to be."

Optimus opened his mouth to reply, but the youngling's words had rendered him speechless. Seeing that the other mech was gaping, Bumblebee chuckled, rocking back in glee. "C'mon, Boss 'bot. You gotta see that you're an awesome mech! Who else could put up with me as much as you can?"

Smiling softly, the german shepherd shook his helm, laughing a little himself.

"Anyways," Bumblebee continued, after giving them each a few more moments to bask in the light atmosphere. "Before I was taken in by you, I knew only one other 'bot in the system. When we're not being shipped from foster home to foster home, they keep us all collected in a youth home -different homes, for different ages. I met this mech there, and, well... we kinda hit it off pretty great."

"We were of the same breed, had similar interests... I lost my parents when I was a bornling, and Wasp... Well, he never knew his dad, and eventually the courts decreed that his mom wasn't suited to care for him because of her drug addiction." Bumblebee paused in his tale, pulling his legs to his chestplates and resting his chin on them. A nostalgic, almost remorseful look overcame the youngling then, and Optimus was tempted to reach out and comfort his foster son.

"We weren't necessarily the best of friends, you might say," Bumblebee continued, glancing up at the german shepherd. "I mean, we got into fights often. Petty ones, really. But we always looked out for each other and swore that we'd find each other should someone ever take us away. We tried to stick together... we really did... but then one year... One year, the social worker came in, packed up Wasp's things and took him away. He never once came back and I was worried constantly about what might have happened to him."

"And then," the chihuahua chuckled dryly, "Then he shows up on my way to school a couple years back. Ready to kill me and all that. You remember when I came home, all covered in scrapes and cuts? Yeah... that was from Wasp. I told you, I'd simply fallen while trying to climb because... because at the time, I didn't want you to send him away. Wasp... Wasp was different than before, Boss 'bot. I could see it clear as day, from the way he talked, to the strange way he moved and everything."

The youngling paused again, this time for longer, and respectably, Optimus kept to himself.

"...they beat him, you know that?," Bumblebee mumbled, his vocalizer strained. "The fraggers that were supposed to take care of him, fragging beat him all the time -without reason or mercy. Stupid courts fragged up big time, when they sent an innocent sparkling into that drunken hell-hole anybody dares call a home. If I had known, I'd-" The youngling cut himself off quick, jaw clenching as he recalled something that his guardian could not relate to.

Shoulders sagging as he vented softly, Bumblebee went on, "Wasp blamed me. He felt that I had betrayed him. Left him there alone to suffer; thinking that I never cared about him. He survived each hellish ordeal by plotting revenge on me, and when he could take the abuse no more, he ran away. Going from place to place, just trying to find me."

"When he first showed up, I was surprised," the yellow mech confessed. "But I was also happy. Happy that I had found my old friend again. Of course, with him trying to attack me constantly, that joy soon turned into fear and even anger. Anger at him, anger at the system, anger at the people who had done this to him..."

"I guess, the point I'm trying to make, Optimus, is that there's always someone to blame. There's gonna be a million different factors in why you should hate someone and blame them for all your problems... but, what does pointing the finger really do at the end of the day? Sometimes, we need to remember, we're all hurting in some little way and decide: is a wounded pride going to be the main reason why you choose to lose a friend for life?"

Bumblebee looked off to the side, venting again, before rising to his pedes and brushing his knee joints casually. "It took a while for me to make things right with Wasp, and I'm grateful that we've been able to move on since then," he added, "I know I don't always make the right decisions, but I'd like to think I did alright when it came to this one. So... if you think it's in your spark, try to give this Sentinel guy another chance. At least, for your sake."

Still too stunned for words, Optimus merely sat there as he was hugged by the younger autodog, feeling something prickle in his spark. From the mouths of babes, they said, and never had the german shepherd been fed such a heavy dose of truth. Ever since that orn so long ago, he'd been carrying a giant gash in his soul, which had never fully healed. It stung, any time he looked back on his childhood, but no more than it did when he glanced at Sentinel from down the hallway at work.

So many things left unsaid... so many fingers pointing blame, when they only wanted to reconcile...

"A-alright...," the secretary mumbled, hugging his foster son back. Fresh tears warmed his optics, threatening to fall. "Alright... I-i'll try..."

_'I'll try and hope that things once again will be okay between Sentinel and I.'_

**xxXxXxx**

The morning after was not one the pomeranian was looking forward to. Pushing himself out of the berth, taking a sip of some flat champagne from the night before, he got to his pedes, heading to the showers for a long, hot cleansing session. Taking his time to dry off, Tracks grabbed his cell and quickly scrolled through his messages. A recent one from the house mother flashed on the screen; unread. A slight frown pulled at the autodog's face, but he opened the message anyways, despite how much he wanted to delete it instead.

"Another day... another client...," he mumbled to himself, heading to his closet to get dressed. Taking his time, the pomeranian got himself spruced up and looking presentable again. After all, if Flare-up was calling for him again, then it must be to get him back on task with his clients. Musing to himself on who would be his date of choice this evening, Tracks left his apartment and headed upstairs.

"Knock knock," he called jokingly, sashaying into the penthouse suite.

Flare-up looked up from her terminal unamused, before pointing to the empty seat in front of her desk. "Please have a seat, Mr. Tracks. There are a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

"O-oh...?," the escort replied, hesitantly stepping forward. He glanced at the two security guards that flanked either side of the front door, standing silent and poised until commanded otherwise. "I see you have some muscle here..."

"Do not worry about them, Mr. Tracks," the femme said, busy pulling a file out from her desk. "They're not going to bite."

Frowning, Tracks took his seat, folding his servos on his lap. "I didn't think they would. I-"

"Quiet," Flare-up ordered, turning her optics up to the pomeranian. "Mr. Tracks, the last time you were in my office, it wasn't under the kindest of circumstances. I don't like having to scold my workers, for the very reason that they are employees, and not my children. If you recall as well, I also scheduled you for an appointment with the visiting vet."

What was she getting at? "Yes...," Tracks agreed slowly. He felt his fuel tanks give a sick, little flip-flop. "Has something come up?"

The grin the jack russell gave him then and there sent chills down the other autodog's spinal struts. Languidly, she flipped open the folder, sliding it across the desk to the escort. "Oh, something has come up, Mr. Tracks," she answered tauntingly, "A certain something that I confess, I never expected to happen. Nor do I think, you would have either. But none of that matters now."

The pomeranian was confused. Though a part of him screamed not to, he leaned forward in his seat, hoping that the file would provide some sort of answer as to what his employer was referring to.

Flare-up watched as he did so, her optics flaring. "As part of article twelve of your contract, section B, in the case of pregnancy through one of your clients, the client then has the right to decide whether to keep or terminate the sparkling. As we have already spoken to Mr. Soundwave-"

"No...," Tracks mumbled, jumping to his pedes. He started to back away.

"-he has decided to keep the sparkling. His signature is here on this release form. Until your final trimester, you will be kept under house arrest-"

"No...n-no...no...no..."

"-and twenty-four hour surveillance, with rotated guard watch, while you are here, to make sure you don't come under any 'accidents' during your carrying. As you near the birth, you will then be transferred to Iacon General and looked after by the medical staff there. A representative from the company will visit often to update your status to myself and the cli-"

"No!," Tracks screamed, backing away further. Tears filled his optics and his lip components trembled as he tried to speak. "I'm n-not... I-i... n-no. You c-can't... No! I refuse! Get this thing out of me! You can't make me keep it! I don't want it! I don't want it! I don't WANT IT!"

In his hysterics, the pomeranian picked up a lamp, torn between hurling it at the still talking femme or using it to cut his own belly open and tear out the parasite growing within him. Immediately, the two security guards came forward, grabbing the autodog and wrenching the lamp out of his servos. They only flinched when the escort began to scream, but did not release him.

"This isn't right! You can't -y-you... It's MY BODY! I won't keep this thing! I REFUSE!"

"Unfortunately, Mr. Tracks," Flare-up replied, stepping around the desk. That cruel grin was still on her face. "You signed a contract, and the terms must be met. It was your own act of foolishness that brought you to this situation... and I refuse to allow anymore rules to be broken because of your selfishness."

Ignoring the cursing, crying mech, the femme turned her attention to the two security guards holding the pomeranian. "Escort Mr. Tracks to his apartment, and make sure to clear out all alcohol and medication, please. We don't want our client's offspring to perish from anything but natural causes. Understood?"

The security guards nodded.

"Good...," Flare-up said. "It was nice talking with you Mr. Tracks," she added, smiling tightly as the guards dragged the screaming and kicking mech out of her office. "Have a good day."


	17. Chapter 17

He was unused to this.

The border collie onlined his optics slowly, trying to focus on the world before he realized that the blurriness was a result of his glasses being skewed. Heavily, he raised a servo and straightened them, taking mute notice that the reason he felt so sluggish and warm was because of the two hybrids currently curled up on either side of him, deep in recharge.

Perceptor stared.

He could not exactly recall when he had gone to bed or when the twins had decided to climb into berth with him, but he supposed it didn't matter. Jetfire and Jetstorm were back... They had gone away, he recalled with horrible clarity, and then they had come back. All of their own volition. To help him overcome Starscream's... involvement, in their lives, however short it might have been.

The scientist's processor went through the events of the other orn, dissecting and analyzing them with the calculated precision that he'd carried his whole life. Like puzzles, he pulled each action and reaction apart, trying to understand how things had ended up that way and where they stood now. Outside of his intense self-analysis, he could sense the stirrings of change in the atmosphere.

A ping of dread echoed from his empty fuel tanks...

The small yawn caught Perceptor by surprise; silently, the autodog turned his helm down, watching neutrally as Jetstorm lifted his helm first, followed by Jetfire. The hybrids gave a short, slow stretch, not willing to get up just yet, but rolling a little so they could look up at their carrier. Big, bright smiles stretched across their lip components as they saw Perceptor awake and looking back at them.

"Morning good," the blue twin greeted.

"Momma good is?," Jetfire asked, giving the border collie a little nuzzle.

Perceptor tried to search for the answer, but could not to find it. The variables were incomplete; the data lacking for a concise and full evaluation. Still, his sons were waiting, their optics lit with hope and shadowed with that fearful touch of doubt. Without moving much, the autodog lifted both servos, rubbing the tips of the twins' ears tenderly. They pressed into the touch, resting their helms back on Perceptor's chassis as they purred in contentment.

"Stay being," the orange hybrid cooed thickly, optics shuttering in peace at the petting, "Us with... Okie for dokie?"

Jetstorm purred in support of his brother's comment. "Reason not leave is being, yes? Warm and soft berth is..."

The scientist had no argument to give to such a suggestion. The twins shifted up and closer, their arms weaving around Perceptor's frame, keeping him warm and protected in their embrace. As his optics slowly shuttered close again, the border collie noted that this was a nice place to be.

His spark whirled in bliss at the closeness and love of his sons.

**xxXxXxx**

Wheeljack mumbled a thanks as the cup was handed to him, cradling it carefully in his servos and sighing as he stared out at the passersby walking up and down the street. Beside him, Ratchet plopped onto the bench, drinking deeply from his own cup of oil and glancing up at the sky in boredom. "So... you said you wanted to talk?," the labrador asked, prompting the unavoidable conversation.

The bulldog sighed again, deliberating a few astroseconds longer as he nursed his oil. "...I think I probably should leave Perceptor alone," he said, as Ratchet went to take another drink. "You know, get out of his life and all."

The vet almost spat his oil across the sidewalk. "W-what?," he growled, choking the hot liquid down and turning his flabbergasted face to the younger mech. "What the slag gave you that idea?!"

Wheeljack looked at Ratchet with dim optics. "Well, I mean, it's my fault that the twins went running off to go and see Starscream. I don't know how they found out about him or even how they discovered where he lived, but I was the one who took them out that day!," the engineer tried to explain. "It was my wallet they swiped! If I had only been paying attention, if I'd only left them home instead of taking them out then-"

The labrador cuffed his companion upside the helm -_hard._

"Ow!," Wheeljack cried, whipping a servo up to rub his aching plating. "What was that for?!"

"That was for being stupid!," Ratchet growled. He put his oil to the side for a moment, pulling out his pad and writing something down on a medical note. Warily, the other autodog took the slip when it was handed to him.

"...and what's this for?," Wheeljack asked, glancing down at the labrador's sharp handwriting.

"Vet's recommendation," the older mech grumbled, "One dosage of 'Grow a fragging pair and stop your whining'."

The engineer scowled, not one bit amused by the vet's sarcastic humor. "Ratchet... this isn't funny..."

"No, I agree it isn't," Ratchet rebutted, picking up his cup again and draining the rest of his oil. "Listen, kid," he continued, wiping quickly at his mouth before turning his attention back to the bulldog, "You've spent years -_years_- being by Perceptor's side. You're an intangible part of his life now, and maybe that's all for the best. Tell me, where would Perceptor be if it weren't for you?"

Wheeljack raised a servo to protest but the quick glare from the labrador shot him down.

"More than likely, Perceptor would be in worse straits than he is now. Primus, he could have very well been forced out onto the streets and into a life of addiction, if it weren't for you. You helped him flee your home town, was with him throughout the duration of his pregnancy and the twins' birth," Ratchet said, his voice growing softer and softer with every sentence, "Slaggit, you even threw away your hopes and dreams of ever becoming an engineer you told me, all so that Perceptor could go and work as a scientist while you stayed home and raised the boys during their first few years."

"B-but..."

"You are an important individual in both Perceptor's and the twins' lives," the vet continued, tone switching back to stern again. "And though he may not fully be aware of it, I'm certain that Perceptor would agree. If he did not need or want you Wheeljack, do you not think that he would have forced you out of his life long ago?"

The bulldog didn't know what to say to that.

Seeing the surprised and perplexed expression on Wheeljack's face, Ratchet sighed, rubbing tiredly at his optics. "Primus, I'm dealing with children...," he muttered.

"C'mon," the labrador ordered, grabbing Wheeljack's arm and yanking the stunned mech to his pedes.

"W-where... where a-are we going?," Wheeljack asked as he realized that he was being pulled off down the street.

Ratchet kept up his pace, not even looking back at the engineer tripping along behind him. "We're going to the flower shop. You're going to pick the biggest, brightest, most beautiful bouquet and give it to Perceptor. I don't even care if it's gaudy or tacky. I'm getting fragging sick of you constantly tip-toeing around that mech."

"B-but, Ratchet!," the bulldog tried to protest.

"Na-na-na-na-na! No excuses! You're going to pick what you think Perceptor will like best and that's the end of it. I'm going to make sure you court that daft scientist and confess your feelings, if it's the last thing I do!" Whimpering now, Wheeljack had no choice but to allow himself to be dragged down the street, knowing that there was no escape after Ratchet had made such a vehement declaration.

**xxXxXxx**

Mirage exited out onto his floor, staring anxiously at the two guards that stood by on either side of Tracks' apartment. Though they were all Flare-up's employees, it was still unnerving to find any of the security staff upstairs on the dwelling areas. After all, it was the trade-mark rule of their careers: no 'guests', security guards or otherwise, allowed in or near the escort's apartments. The yorkie supposed it was an insurance policy to make sure people weren't getting their frags without first paying the price.

Gripping the box in his servos tightly, the blue mech forced himself to walk toward the security guards, swallowing back his fear. They looked down on him blankly as he approached. "I-i, I would like to see Tracks," Mirage said, trying to keep his vocalizer as strong as possible, "If there are no qualms."

The two mechs shared a look with each other, before they both nodded, stepping aside so that the escort could enter. A servo was grasping Mirage's arm an astrosecond after though, taking the box from his servos. "You can't take this to him," was all the security guard said, before handing the box to his partner.

Confused and affronted by the callous notice, the yorkie continued on into the apartment, slowing down in shock. What he had thought was merely was an open door, was not. In fact, Tracks' door was missing from its hinges entirely. Walking further into the apartment, Mirage was quick to see that wasn't the only changes to take affect since he'd last been in the pomeranian's home. Where there had once been pictures and vases and beautiful mirrors, empty spaces remained; the absence of these items creating a void that suddenly made the apartment feel that much more cold and lifeless. An image supported more by the silent autodog that sat hunched over on the couch, staring distantly out the window as he clutched a blanket around his shoulders.

"T...tracks?," Mirage called softly, almost not believing this was the same narcissistic mech that he knew.

The helm turned to him stiffly, optics narrowed and dim behind their frames. "...come to laugh and jeer at the accident as well?," the pomeranian asked coldly.

"W-what? No!," the yorkie protested immediately, standing in the spot where the coffee table had once been. "No, Tracks, I heard what's happened and I... I w-wanted to come see how you were doing. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

Tracks snorted at the words, turning his helm away again. "Please. As if I'm not aware of what's really being said about me," he muttered contemptuously. "Why don't you do yourself a favour Mirage and stop pretending as if you care. I know you certainly don't view me as a friend."

The words were like a slap to the face. For a moment, the blue mech didn't know what to do other than to stand there, gaping like a fool, but slowly the anger rose in him and he balled his fists as he glared down at the sullen autodog. "You are an idiot! Insinuating that I simply spend time with you for the chance to mock you... Do you really think yourself that special Tracks? Can your narcissism find no better way to deal with your selfishness than to make it seem as if the whole world is jealous of you?"

"I'd hate to see what happens to those that actually worry about you," Mirage added, driven in his irritation with the other escort.

The pomeranian bared his fangs as he faced the yorkie. "Concern? You want to talk to me about concern now?!," he snarled, his tone getting louder and louder with every sentence. "Concern is what this slagging company calls a 'contract'! Concern is having my life fragged over by one stranger's signature! Concern, is having twenty-four hour surveillance watch and having all my doors removed, as if I was some dangerous criminal! I can't even go to the fragging washroom without some presumptuous, muscle-brained dimwit standing in the doorway."

"Their 'concern'," Tracks continued, spitting in disgust, "For my well-being included confiscating my possessions. They even took all the glass and cutlery! As if having my freedom ripped away from me wasn't humiliation enough... but now I'm denied my privacy and my dignity all for their sick amusement!"

Mirage didn't know what to say to that. He stood, silently horrified, as the taller mech spewed his animosity, feeling smaller and weaker with every curse. The yorkie watched mutely as Tracks snorted again at his silence; anger and indignation snuffed out as the pomeranian seemed to curl into himself. Leaving only nothingness behind.

"Don't say I deserve it," he muttered softly, pulling his knees up onto the couch and burying his helm into them. "Don't say anything. Just go... leave me alone. I don't want your pity."

Resignedly, the smaller escort turned away, ignoring the security guards as he passed them on the way out.

**xxXxXxx**

"Ah, Optimus, it's good to see you back."

The german shepherd looked up, smiling as he watched Ultra Magnus approach him. The lawyer was slipping on a brown trench coat, holding a black briefcase in one servo as he walked down the hallway. "Good morning, sir," Optimus replied, shifting his load, "I apologize that I was unable to return sooner. I would have come if I had known that you'd be leaving to go out of town, instead of-"

The older mech raised a servo, silencing the other autodog. "Don't fret about it, Optimus," the great dane assured, smiling kindly at his secretary, "Things were manageable in your absence. I'm only glad that you are fit and well... though we seem to have lost Sentinel today in exchange..."

Optimus looked to the side self-consciously. "U-um, yes, well, that may be my fault sir..."

Ultra Magnus chuckled softly, patting younger mech on the shoulder. "Perhaps he caught your bug now too? Tell me, how is young Bumblebee faring anyhow?"

"Oh, he's well, sir. He's a very bright and energetic pup, though I fear not very good at sitting still... He's at least passing all his courses anyways, and we've actually talked a bit about future careers." Optimus smiled. "Bumblebee's grown so much. It's still amazing to look back and think of how he used to be compared to now."

"I confess, I was somewhat concerned when you had informed me that you were adopting a stray into your home, Optimus," the lawyer shared seriously, "Especially since you seemed somewhat stretched between work and your tutoring lessons with Perceptor's young ones. But you've proven time and again that once you take something on, you see it through straight to the end- strong and true. I am not surprised that Bumblebee has started to emulate you, Optimus. You are a noble person to follow..."

The german shepherd was blushing at the unexpected praise. Before he could shake off his daze though and protest against the flattery that Ultra Magnus had so needlessly bestowed him with, the great dane was pulling his pocket watch out of his coat; checking the time before slipping it away once again. "I'm sorry, Optimus, but I must cut this nice conversation short. I need to be at the airport in a little while to catch my flight," he informed.

"O-oh, well, I-i'm very sorry for having kept you, sir," Optimus quickly apologized.

"Nonsense," the other autodog replied kindly. "If you happen to see Sentinel before I return, do tell him that I hope he is doing well. In the meantime, have a good day, Optimus; Jazz- I shall see you both once I get back."

Waving quickly, the great dane continued on his way, leaving the stunned secretary to whirl around once he was out of sight, coming face to face to the familiar dalmatian. "J-jazz?!"

"Hey, OP," Jazz greeted, shoulders rolled back casually and an easy smirk on his lip components. "How ya been? It's been awfully dull 'round here since ya been gone..."

"...yes, well," Optimus sighed, turning and walking down his section of city hall. Jazz followed quickly at his side. "It's been a very... busy... little while. I needed some time to myself."

"So ya weren't really sick then, huh?," the security guard asked, his questions piercing. "...I found out too ya know. Why ya were so mad at Sentinel..."

The taller mech came to an abrupt stop, facing his companion. He searched the neutral face quickly, trying to weigh the consequences of his next words. Finding nothing, Optimus couldn't help but to sigh again, shifting his folders. "Listen, Jazz-"

"It was disgusting, ya know. The way that he would be so insulting to ya, his oldest and bestest friend..." The dalmatian shook his helm, glaring at the ground momentarily. "I'm telling ya, if I had known sooner, I would have socked that horndog several. Almost threw the terminal when I found out that Magnus sent him to go find ya yesterday to tell ya to come back to work. ...He didn't start slag, did he?"

"In a matter... somewhat," Optimus replied flatly. He quickly raised his servo, grasping Jazz's shoulder plating as the other autodog readied himself for a rant. "Jazz, please, I appreciate all of your concern and everything, but... but this is something that I feel must be resolved between Sentinel and myself alone. No good will come out of it if you and him start picking fights."

"B-but..." The smile the german shepherd gave him was somewhat disarming. Jazz struggled to gather his thoughts, even as the secretary turned and began walking away. "So you're still going to go talk to him? Even after all the slag he pulled?!"

Optimus did not stop or slow down this time. "Of course," he called back, shrugging his shoulders casually. "No point not to, when the conversation hasn't finished yet." Then he said no more; rounding the bend and disappearing from sight.

Jazz stood where he had been left for a few astroseconds longer, before he vented loudly, slipping his servos into his pockets as a wry smile pulled his lip components upwards. "Well, I guess that's the end of that...," he mused to himself, spinning on his heel and heading back for his own station.

**xxXxXxx**

He stood staring at the door for a good, few kliks before hesitantly reaching up and knocking. The dull thud was enough though to make Wheeljack cringe. Okay, so he had keys... Perceptor had made spares the week they had first moved into this apartment together, and had left a pair in the bulldog's possession for him to keep even after he had moved out later on. Wheeljack just didn't feel quite comfortable using them this very instant.

Was that so weird?

Slight movement could be heard on the other side of the door. Panicking for a horrible moment, the engineer twisted the bouquet behind his back, cringing again when the plastic wrap crinkled loudly in the empty hallway. Why did the femme at the flower shop have to wrap up the roses in so much of the stuff? Swallowing sharply, Wheeljack was forced to pay attention as he heard the deadbolt drop heavily on the other side of the door; the brass knob turning, before the wood began to swing backwards slowly.

He almost wanted to scream out 'Thank Primus' when it was Perceptor himself who opened the door, and not the twins -which, the bulldog realized a couple astroseconds too late, would have been the terrible alternative.

"Wheeljack...," the border collie began in that same, flat tone of his. "Did you not have keys?"

"U-umm, well...," Wheeljack mumbled, silently berating himself for even thinking that Perceptor might not pick up on that fact, "I, u-uh... I f-forgot them! Yeah... At work! I, um, was almost all the way here before I-i realized, and I thought well, um, no point going back to get them now really. I'll just get them tomorrow w-when I go back into work."

The scientist, even in his expressionless state, did not seem entirely convinced by the engineer's poor excuse. Slag, even Wheeljack wasn't entirely convinced by his own lie... Feeling like a sparkling caught in the act, the white autodog quickly glanced away, fidgeting slightly in his embarrassment.

"I, u-um, I g-got something anyways!," he exclaimed hurriedly, before whipping the roses out from behind his backstruts and thrusting them at the smaller mech. Perceptor merely shuttered his optics at the flowers pushing awfully close to his olfactory sensor, black ears perked queerly. For a moment, Wheeljack actually felt giddy -this had been the first time he'd ever gotten so close to confessing his feelings for the other autodog, and seeing a flash of recognition sparkle in those delicate optics sent a thrill through him.

He opened his mouth wide to speak, when Perceptor beat him to the bunch.

"Agglomeration of botanical organism Rosa genus of Rosaceae strain?," the border collie stated factually, the barest lilt of a question in his tone. "What is the objective of presentation?"

He stared over the roses at Wheeljack patiently. Fumbling, because that had certainly not been what he had expected to hear from Perceptor (but, really, should he have anticipated something else from the die-hard science nerd?), Wheeljack tried his best not to let his disappointment show in his vocalizer as he answered. "W-well, um, they're... They're for the apartment!," he quickly fibbed, forcing a smile to his face, "I thought the boys might like something nice and pretty in the house, after that whole... fiasco. And, umm, well, roses are... nice? Right?"

One of the black ears slightly tipped to the side. The engineer had a hard time not gushing as the action made the scientist appear so cute and innocent. "Reasoning valid," the red mech conceded after a moment. He stepped back a smidge, making room for the bulldog to enter. Gladly, Wheeljack did so. The smell of something roasting met his olfactory sensors, and he couldn't help but to sniff at the air loudly.

"Wow... something sure smells good!"

"Jetstorm and Jetfire are preparing for tonight's meal. They are insistent on making a special dish for our consummation," Perceptor replied.

"Ah, I see...," Wheeljack returned, glancing away from the border collie when one of the fore-mentioned twins came skipping out of the kitchen. Orange ears flew up in delighted surprise and Jetfire practically sprang across the room to hug the bulldog.

"Uncle Wheeljack!," he chirped.

"Hey," the engineer beamed, his spark welling in joy to see the hybrid his usual, up-beat self. He'd been almost afraid that Jetstorm and Jetfire's running off would have torn the little family apart, but after the initial scare and a good bit of crying, all three mechs were back up on their pedes. They even seemed a little better than before. "You guys sleep all day?"

Jetfire giggled. "No... most sleep of day, not all. But is good nap was." From the corner of his optics, he saw the bouquet that hung by Wheeljack's side, almost obscured by his carrier. Grinning in disbelief, he yanked the engineer's arm forwards, almost burying his olfactory sensors in the buds. "Flowers? Bringing what for them?," he asked through a purr.

Wheeljack felt himself blush in embarrassment as the roses were stolen from his grasp to be cradled and smelled by the eager youngling, having forgotten about them again so quickly. "U-um, well, you see..."

"Wheeljack has purchased them as a present for all of us," Perceptor quickly supplied, "We shall set them accordingly within a vase and set them in the living room."

The youngling spared each of the autodogs a look, and for a frightening moment, Wheeljack thought he saw some sort of calculating thought pass through the yellow orbs. He was soon to forget it though when Jetfire beamed up at them, clutching the bouquet tight to his chestplates. "Okie for dokie! Shall putting in water, am I!" The orange mech turned to return to the kitchen.

"O-oh, um, wouldn't you like some help Jetfire?," Wheeljack asked, feeling somewhat guilty that the younglings were currently doing everything.

The hybrid shook his helm widely, smiling up at the engineer cheekily. "We all do! Adults no help," he added immediately, his grin turning into something of a stern pout. It lacked any seriousness though, and only looked overwhelmingly adorable. "Can do being, brother and I."

Wheeljack couldn't help but to chuckle as Jetfire finally turned away, disappearing into the next room. "Well, I guess that settles that then..." He swept an arm toward the living room, inviting Perceptor to join him. Together, they headed over and to the couch. "I'm glad to see the boys up and about. Jetfire being his spunky self, Jetstorm wanting to cook all the time... How about you, Percy? How you feeling?"

The border collie inclined his helm slightly to the bulldog as they sat down, side by side. "I have exceeded my slots for medical leave. I shall return to my lab tomorrow and proceed with my unfinished duties. Starting with the commission for the refinery company," he answered.

Wheeljack shuttered his optics in shock at the statement. "You're... you're still going to work on that commission?," the engineer asked, feeling his fuel tanks churn anxiously. Things had all spiraled out of control because of that slagging commission in the first place, leading to the discovery that the company was owned and run by Megatron, Starscream's bondmate. The lucky glitch that had sired the twins. The white mech couldn't understand why Perceptor would want to even have anything to do with the kittycon CEO after all of this.

The scientist didn't seem very concerned himself about his choices though. "Of course," he replied neutrally, helm turning to face his companion fully, "Only thorough inadequacy to facilitate the client's requirements is valid pardon to not fulfil a task entrusted to me. If the variables are inaccessible or inoperable for modern adaptation, then I shall advise another to be given the project. For now, I am capable of handling this formulae."

What could he say to that? Even as bland as the words had been spoken, there was no doubting the passion and confidence Perceptor both carried in himself and the field that he worked under. And truthfully, Wheeljack knew, there really was no one better to do the job. Not another 'bot around could match the border collie's genius. Releasing a heavy vent, Wheeljack leaned back against the couch, pausing for a moment in his thoughts. His arm, he realized, had automatically slung over the back of the furniture out of pure habitual routine, because the couch was so small and with how wide he was, it was virtually impossible for him to keep it at his side comfortably when seated with someone else. He'd never noticed before, how the fabric and foam dipped about the middle, right where his forearm was currently cradled; formed that way from stellar cycles of his arm resting there.

Struck by the new-found discovery, Wheeljack slowly glanced around the room, realizing that he knew every nook and cranny of this apartment and could recall every detail with vividness, even if he were to lose his sight right then and there. He even remembered how each and every mark, bump, scratch or stain was made; whether by Perceptor, one of the twins or himself.

His spark was beginning to whirl excitedly beneath his chestplates.

The distinguishing signs of the bulldog's presence throughout the stellar cycles were clearly visible around the apartment, and yet he had never truly noticed nor considered their significance until now. Ratchet had been right... He was an integrated part of not only Perceptor's life, but the twins' as well. He was, in some, small beautiful way, truly apart of their family.

Smiling serenely, Wheeljack turned his helm back toward the curious border collie; his helm fins glowing with a pale rose. "I'm glad to hear it, Percy. You're amazing at seeing something through, even if you're afraid it might fail," he said, in response to the scientist's proclamation earlier. Primus, it almost felt an eternity since Perceptor had said those words.

Relaxing further into his seat, the engineer politely led the conversation onto a topic more in his field -experiments and inventions- the feeling of peace and comfort having yet to leave the bigger autodog. His stubby little tail wagged as he watched Perceptor's ears grow a tad more perk at the stimulating discussion.

Tomorrow, Wheeljack decided, he'd try again tomorrow. And every orn after, for as long as it took, until this wonderful, beautiful, brilliant mech knew just how much he was loved and appreciated by his friend.


	18. Chapter 18

He'd hated the way his dad had bid him farewell.

Ultra Magnus had given him the usual speech of expectations and requirements that he always did, that made the younger mech feel small and insignificant. He tried not to let it bother him, but it was always did. Those old words of 'Don't do this, don't do that' never failed to make him feel as if he'd made some sort of mistake and was now being reprimanded for it with a condescending scolding.

He wasn't a child anymore...

Rodimus had kept silent through it all, smiling as best as he could as the great dane gathered together the last of his things, before grabbing his coat last. "Be well, son. I'll be home before long," Ultra Magnus had said, bending forward and kissing the arch of the golden retriever's brow.

The affection made him wince slightly, though Rodimus did not think the older mech noticed.

...he used to kiss him like that when he was a sparkling...

On the verge of tears, it took all his effort to send the other lawyer off with well wishes for both his convention and his travels, but Rodimus had managed. His smile dropped and his optics dimmed the moment that Ultra Magnus had walked through the office door though; his gaze lowering until he was only staring at his pedes.

Cringing at the painful knots forming in his fuel tanks, the golden retriever shook off his nausea, burying it along with his pain behind a smile as he walked out of the office next himself.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks looked up when he heard someone entering his apartment again. His scowl turned into a full-on snarl when noticed the familiar gait and blue persian ears; jumping up off the couch and clawing his robe closer to him. "What are you doing here?," he demanded. "You've had your frag! Get lost!"

Soundwave paused just at the threshold of the living room, standing silently, his arms crossed neutrally behind his backstruts as he gazed at the riled pomeranian. It was unnerving having that red visor fixed on him wholly, studying and analyzing behind a flat, unreadable mask. Tracks hated it. Hated that judging look more than the spawn currently growing in his belly right now. "I said 'leave!," he barked, starting to circle around the couch as the kittycon slowly approached.

He whimpered momentarily as he got trapped between the sofa and an end table, blue optics flaring in a panic as one of the other mech's golden servos rose towards him. The escort responded immediately, snapping forward with his denta chomping air, almost biting the thick digits before Tracks gave a weak growl and dodged past Soundwave and to the relative-safety of his berthroom. Stunned, the persian could only stand there idly, before he realized one of the security guards had approached him from behind.

"Sir...," the autodog started tersely, walkie talkie held near his helm. His optics were narrowed and his frown was accusing. "Ms. Flare-up would like to see you upstairs, please."

Soundwave did not reply, his visor flashing for an astrosecond, before he turned on his pede and following after the other mech. The kittycon glanced behind him as he was leaving the apartment, seeing red-tipped ears disappearing back out of sight from across the room.

**xxXxXxx**

It wasn't hard to find Sentinel if you ever really needed to find him.

Optimus walked into the bar a little uncertainly, glancing at the retinue of customers surrounding him. None of them looked particularly threatening, and they were all busy with each other, laughing and talking in merry cheer. The german shepherd felt a little silly just then for worrying. What had he expected really? Maccadam's was a well-known bar, popular to the citizens of Iacon and with a rich, long-standing history of operation. The company was always the friendliest, the events and shows some of the best around and the owner had the largest stock of alcohols and tonics within this half of Cyberton, some said. All in all, Maccadam's was a nice place to be, especially since the owner and the two bouncers by the jukebox hardly allowed anyone to get rowdy within the bar's premises.

Trying to shake off his nerves, Optimus walked further into the bar, smiling kindly at the few 'bots that greeted him with a smile and a raise of their glass. But after a few astroseconds, he focused only on finding the wayward Sentinel, squinting a little through the hazy light and few plumes of cygar smoke as he searched. If he were the overbearing, cynical autodog, where would he sit?

_'In the shadiest, loneliest part of the bar,'_ the secretary thought sardonically, as he finally caught sight of the blue mech. Sentinel sat where the light was dimmest, highlighted only by the glow of nearby switches and neon advertisements for various beers and counseling sessions. Already he was surrounded by several bottles, each drained empty, and there was another one in his servo that the rottweiler was just finishing that very moment.

"B'rtin'er...," he slurred as he tossed his bottle to the side carelessly. It clinked and rolled dangerously across the lacquered counter before getting stopped by a bowl of beer bolts down the way. "Bratin'r!," Sentinel growled louder, smacking the wood with his servo, trying to get the elusive bartender's attention.

"I think you've had enough, Sentinel. Don't you?," Optimus sighed, coming up behind the other mech. The security guard spun around haphazardly in his seat, glaring at the multi-coloured autodog. For a horrifying moment, he thought Sentinel was going to start yelling at him all over again, and no offence to anyone, but Optimus certainly couldn't handle Sentinel angry when he was sober -let alone drunk.

"...whurr 're y-yeh?"

"...what?," the secretary gaped.

The other's narrowed optics shuttered at him blearily for a long moment, before Sentinel snorted, almost tipping back in his seat with the action as he faced back towards the bar.

"S-stupid, slaggin'... fe...fr'gger...," the rottweiler snarled, burping loudly as his servo clambered about the counter, searching for another drink.

The german shepherd stood behind him in a daze for almost a whole klik before he snapped out of it. Who was he...? Had Sentinel really forgotten so quickly? No, Optimus told himself, shaking his helm. Sentinel could forget a lot of things -basic manners, special occasions, what he did with the last doughnut- but never had the rottweiler forgotten who he was specifically. It kinda defeated the purpose of the other autodog hating him.

"'R-render!," Sentinel shouted, pounding the counter now. The bartender gave the rottweiler a dry look, obviously displeased with his noise and aggressiveness. Raising a servo in apology, Optimus move forward and gently pushed all of Sentinel's empty bottles away from him, before touching his shoulder plating.

"Sentinel...," he said, hiding his cringe as drunken optics turned to him sullenly, "Come... let me take you home. I think you've had enough for tonight."

It was almost ridiculously easy to get the security guard to rise from his chair. It toppled to the floor as he swayed up onto his pedes; attempting to stand on his own before it became obvious that he was completely incapable of that, and almost dropped on top of Optimus entirely. "W-what...," the german shepherd huffed, trying to keep upright even with the heavy mech leaning on him, "J-just how much did you drink, Sentinel?"

His ex-friend grumbled and slurred something indistinguishable into his ear, making the appendage twitch as hot air brushed over it. Trying to ignore the queer sensation, Optimus slowly shuffled for the door, apologizing and smiling kindly at anyone who moved obstacles and other things from his path. The bouncer even held the door for him on his way out, which the secretary would have thanked him for if it wasn't for the fact that Sentinel decided to slip from his grip then and puke all over the doorstep.

"Urgh...," the multi-coloured mech groaned, shuttering his optics and trying not to curse. "Sentinel..."

The rottweiler groaned pitifully as his companion pushed him back up, slinging Sentinel's arm across his shoulder plating and gripping his wrist tightly. "C'mon, you," Optimus sighed, side-stepping the puddle of vomit as best as he could. "You need some water and your bed. Honestly... What would make you want to drink yourself into such a stupor?"

Sentinel shuffled awkwardly along with the secretary, tripping and fumbling over his own pedes most of the time. Leaning away at a gross belch, the german shepherd almost missed what the other autodog grumbled.

"W-what?!," he gaped, snapping his helm towards the drunk.

"...th'nks...," the rottweiler repeated quietly.

Optimus dropped him.

The blue mech growled weakly against the sidewalk, groaning and slowly attempting to push himself up. Realizing what he'd done, the secretary quickly dropped to his knees, helping Sentinel up into a sitting position, propping him against a nearby post. "I, e-erm, that is...," Optimus stuttered, "Are... are you alright? Sentinel?"

The autodog glared up at him sullenly, his gaze still not entirely focused and swimming in a cloud of alcohol-induced confusion. Optimus refrained from rubbing his optics. "Right...," he sighed. "Let's... let's try this again, alright Sentinel? We need to get you home."

"Stupid, sl'ggin'...," Sentinel hissed and growled as he was hoisted up onto his pedes again. "Y-ya g't bo'ze?"

"Do I have, what?" The german shepherd started walking slowly down the street again, the security guard leaning against his shoulder plating. He shook his helm in exasperation. "No. No, I don't have any more booze, Sentinel. You're going straight home and to bed, and that's final. I think you've done enough damage for one night... Honestly! Why would you skip out on work just to go drink yourself under the table for?"

Sentinel groaned as they stepped down from the curb; Optimus looking both ways before hurrying as best as he could to cross the street. "'Cuz...," the other autodog slurred, "...'i-im."

That was vague.

The rottweiler snorted, and again, Optimus flinched, surprised and both worried by how self-deprecating that sound was. He struggled to glance back at his ex-friend as they moved down the block, finding the mech only staring down at the concrete dazedly and scowling at something unknown. "W-was...urgh, st-stupid," Sentinel mumbled, almost tripping again. His assistant hoisted him up a little more, focusing on the corner coming up ahead as condensation started to spot his brow.

"D-durd, urgh... f-frag! W-wit', e-ex...ex... t-too much whore!," Sentinel growled loudly, frustrated at his own slurring. If the volume wasn't enough, the context of which the rottweiler was talking about was surely enough to get Optimus to drop him again. The blue mech got lucky this time; he was already near the wall, so he merely fell against it when he swayed, instead of hitting the floor.

"W-what...," Optimus asked, his intakes coming in short, tense bursts, "A-are you talking about?"

The other autodog pushed against the wall, looking around himself dazedly, as if he couldn't remember how he had gotten there or what he was doing. Of course, that might have been exactly how Sentinel was feeling, but the german shepherd didn't care. Not right now, not when his ex-friend was talking about his priciest lay.

"Answer me, slaggit!," he snarled, jumping forwards and grabbing the drunk's shirt.

Sentinel, surprisingly, did nothing as he was shoved back against the wall, his optics dim and unfocused. "S-screw'd... u-up...," he mumbled contritely, to the secretary's astonishment. Optimus grip went slack as the security guard sighed, half a whimper slipping out along with it. "...Didn't m-mean t'..., Sentinel continued, turning away from the smaller mech and rustling around in his pocket awkwardly, trying to get his keys. Optimus decided to look up then, realizing that they had actually made it to the rottweiler's apartment.

"...werz m' fault..."

The german shepherd clued in a couple astroseconds later, that his ex-friend was walking through the building's front door, heading for the elevator. Quickly, he chased after the stumbling rottweiler, panting as he managed to skid into the elevator just before the doors closed. Sentinel was grumbling and whispering to himself as if he was having a conversation this entire time, but his words were too low and slurred for Optimus to really make out.

"S-sentinel... Sentinel, what are you talking about?," he asked again, gentler this time. His spark was starting to pulsate wildly, and even his fuel tanks were doing flip-flops now. This was more than just the ramblings of some poor drunk... this was Sentinel, for once, speaking the honest-to-primus truth, without being vague or getting horribly defensive. For the sake of fixing their friendship, Optimus needed this.

The rottweiler shook his helm, refusing to look up at the other autodog, even as the elevator reached his floor and he swayed dangerously on the way out. Optimus followed at his heels quietly, deciding it would be better to pursue this when the taller mech was in his own home and away from nosey neighbours. Somehow, he wasn't too surprised when the security guard headed right for his fridge after stepping inside, pulling a beer out from the back.

"Sentinel...," he sighed in exasperation. "You really shouldn't-" Sentinel pulled away from him sullenly when he tried to take the autodog's bottle, stumbling for the couch and crashing on it. Optimus watched as a servo padded around the floor, yanking a book out from under the couch; the rottweiler opening it up on his lap as he took a big swig from his bottle.

Mutely, the german shepherd padded forward. "...our highschool year book...," he mumbled in surprise, his optics quickly dimming. He did not have many fond memories of his highschool orns. The secretary wiped subtly at his optics, turning his attention back to Sentinel and their year book, once again startled to find that the rottweiler had flipped the page and now was scratching the space next to Optimus' graduation photo.

"A' hurt 'im...," Sentinel said, his ears flat against his helm and even his tail curled pathetically against his hip. "A' not m-meant t'... j-jus'... Urgh, A' werz y-young! S-stupehd." He paused to finish his beer, throwing the bottle across the room. Optimus ducked as it smashed against the other wall.

"Sentinel!"

"...'e chose h-her," the blue mech whined softly. "A-a'... Nuv'r thought a'd s-see hur 'g-gain... boot 'ere s-she wez! N-nu good! Nu good 't all! She l-look'd..." The drunk waved a servo over his frame strangely, frowning. "W-weird. C-clothes, 'ark... n-nu tail, h-helmet...b-black... She nu E-elita. Nu more! A'... A' l-loved 'im first... wez w-wantin' t'...t' s-say so. Lil' mech, g-gonna be big 'un s-soon. W-want'd t' be 'i-is... t' 'a-ave 'im b-back..."

Sentinel slouched against the couch, sinking deeper and deeper into the cushions as his optics filled with tears. "A' muss'd up," he whispered. "D-dudn't t-think 'e'd ch-choose 'er... A' g-gut hurt. S-so bad. H-hurt 'im back... still d-duhin'. Duhn't know 'ow t' stop. S-still... still love 'im."

Drunken optics turned to him then, and Optimus couldn't help the little flinch he gave at suddenly being the centre of attention. To see those usually determined, arrogant blue orbs of his friend's... filled with coolant and so broken... it tore. Really deep. How would he have guessed that Sentinel had been beating himself up on the inside since they first parted ways all those stellar cycles ago? And, to say that he-

The german shepherd swallowed sharply as a limp servo lifted for him; Sentinel waving him over tiredly. Anxiously, Optimus approached, seating himself on the very edge of the couch as he faced his old friend. "Sentinel..."

"T-th'nks...," the security guard mumbled, cutting off the other autodog. He shuttered his optics slowly, his helm rolling to the side as he began to slip into recharge. "F-fer listenin'... W-wish... wish a' c-could tell 'im, a'... a' wez sorry. J-jus'... Jus' w-wanna see 'im h-happy..."

Sentinel yawned, chin dropping to his chestplates as he slouched further in his seat. "...w-want... wan 'im...s-smile...at... me... 'gain..."

"...Sentinel...," Optimus called softly, reaching over and lightly touching the other's shoulder. The rottweiler did not reply, instead, tipping to the side and slowly sinking to the couch's arm; curling up against it slightly in his drunken state.

Sighing, the multi-coloured mech rose to his pedes, gently re-arranging Sentinel so he was spread comfortably across the couch, before draping a blanket over him. The german shepherd made one last stop in the kitchen to grab a glass of water and some painkillers; leaving them with a small note on the coffee table, in plain sight of the other's view.

Standing awkwardly for a moment, Optimus stared down at his old friend, smiling softly as he turned away and finally left.

**xxXxXxx**

"Just what the _slag_ do you think you are doing?!" Flare-up slammed her fists on the desk, fangs bared at the kittycon as he strode into her office. The security guard that had escorted him upstairs quickly backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him as he went. "Mr. Soundwave," she growled, drawing the mech's attention again.

"Fact: Only was visiting Mr. Tracks-"

"You do not have my authority to visit him!," the femme snarled, knocking over her glass as a servo flew into the air; one, sharp finger pointing at the persian. "Clients are forbidden from the escorts' personal quarters, and you, Mr. Soundwave, have blatantly disregarded the rules and my authority! What right do you have to strut past security, lying to their faces about standard protocol?!"

Soundwave did not look contrite, nor unnerved by the autodog shouting at him. Calmly, he crossed the room, sitting in one of the chairs before her desk. Irked, Flare-up watched this, barely holding back from leaning over and slapping the presumptuous mech.

"Assumption: Had felt there was no crime in visiting the carrier of my child," the kittycon said neutrally.

She growled as she loomed over the desk. "There," she spat, forgoing politeness and etiquette, "is _plenty_ of a crime in this, Mr. Soundwave. You may have signed a contract to keep the lil' spawn, but you do not have the right_ nor_ the permission to come and go as you will. This building is private property, its occupants also employees -all of whom are highly protected and ensured by the company the utmost safety and privacy in their everyday lives. Though Mr. Tracks is sparked, that does not make him your 'beloved' suddenly, and I'm sure as slag certain he doesn't want to see your dull mug."

"How dare you then try to force your presence on him?," the femme added venomously.

The persian bridged his fingers before his face, his expression concealed brilliantly from view. "... Status: Would like to visit Tracks. Inquiry: May I have your permission?"

Flare-up sneered. "I think we've already discussed your viewpoints on my say-so, Mr. Soundwave," she replied. "And besides... Why should I? What could you possibly get out of seeing him? He certainly isn't going to frag you."

"Fact: Would be willing to pay to continue seeing him."

This angered the femme. "Pay...?," she hissed. "PAY?! Mr. Soundwave, this is not the Edo era. I do not sell and buy sex, nor do I offer the freedom of one of my 'geishas' over for some fancy pile of coins! We're talking about _individuals_ here -who choose and live their lives as they please, and all with the additional security that they can walk away from this once they've tired of it. Don't you dare insult my employees with your 'charity'!"

Flare-up narrowed her optics when even the kittycon did not respond to this. "...Get out of my office," she snarled, fangs bared and fists clenched on the desktop. "Get the frag out of my building and off of my property. If I even see you around the block, I will-"

"Statement: Said it was his choice," Soundwave quickly cut in, speaking soft and calm. His visor flashed in the light. "Inquiry: If I seek his permission first, may I then continue seeing him? Fact: If he refuses, no matter what, I shall step away and will only return after the sparkling is born. Will also close the account with your company and not hire any of your employees ever again."

"Inquiry: Is this satisfactory?"

Flare-up glared at the mech quietly for a klik, her ear twitching atop her helm periodically as she thought it over. "...And you still would pay? Knowing that these would more than likely be entirely non-romantic engagements?," she mumbled curiously.

The persian nodded his helm.

The jack russell frowned, before plopping down into her seat, rifling through the folders on her desk. "Very well, Mr. Soundwave," she answered stiffly, not looking at him as she pulled out a new sheet. "You may have your chance. But be aware that I am keeping you to your word, and that these visits will also be closely monitored by our capable staff watching over Mr. Tracks."

"Status: Understood," Soundwave said, his tail giving a little flick.

**xxXxXxx**

Swindle scrolled down the page quickly, his optics taking in the information while his other servo rapidly jotted it down on a piece of paper. The document on the screen had been sent to him through a secret source, generously paid for their help, but was on a timer, before both the source codes and details were wiped completely from existence -a necessary precaution, after a few of the kittycon's trade had been caught in the act of illegal work and had their hard drives hacked into for evidence.

Nowadays, most sources rigged their files with quick-activated time bombs, giving the viewer only astroseconds to take in the information before a virus was unleashed; devouring the file and its contents, and leaving it all too corrupted for any sort of retrieval. Swindle only had ten astroseconds left...

Frowning, the mech scrolled all the way to the bottom, his optics flaring in surprise, before his terminal screen gave a shuddering wink. His only warning, before the entire monitor went dark, an error message popping up, announcing the file as gone. Swindle paid it no mind. In about a few moments, his terminal would reboot, opening back up to the main page where the rest of his seemingly innocent and mundane files and folders sat on the desktop, with no harm done to the computer or the hard drive itself.

Turning to his paper, the devon rex scratched down the last of the information he had just read, taking that moment to stare in mute shock at the black words glimmering up at him. He had hoped to find something juicy... and Primus, had Swindle rolled onto the biggest piece of gossip anyone could hope for in his business. He would have felt happier, the kittycon noted, if it wasn't for the fact that he'd have to report this to his "client" next time the big idiot came by...

And he just _knew_ Blackout wasn't going to respond kindly to this latest revelation.

**xxXxXxx**

He turned to glare at the security guard over his shoulder plating as the mech lifted a servo to his headpiece; listening and quietly murmuring something in response to the person on the other line. Deeming it a waste of his time, Tracks turned his helm back forwards, staring out his apartment window silently.

Primus..., he thought, a servo reaching up and touching the glass softly, it was beautiful out.

The pomeranian balled his fist. He wanted to be out there; wanted to walk, helm held high, out in the sunlight, having all worshipping optics on him. Adoring him... loving him... dreaming to be him... He wanted to have his sense of freedom and confidence and beauty back, but instead, he was caged -inside a contract, his apartment, his body, unable to get out or escape.

Maybe if he opened the window, removed the screen...? Tracks mulled the prospect of jumping as he leaned closer to the glass, his optics quickly calculating the height and distance from the ground. Oh, such a drop would certainly kill him, but... at least he'd be free.

"Suggestion: ...perhaps you should step back a little?"

The autodog jumped at the vocalizer, spinning around in terror, clawed fingers once again hugging himself as he growled at the persian. "W-what...," he started lowly, glancing around quickly. The security guard had disappeared, leaving him all alone. "What are you doing here?! Why did you come back?"

He had thought Soundwave's first visit was bad enough... Now, Flare-up was sending him back after a couple kliks to further taunt him? That glitch...

The kittycon did not answer that. Tracks flinched and slammed back against the window as the other mech took a step forward, his ears flattening against his helm in fear and warning. "S-stop," he hissed, fangs bared. "Don't c-come any closer!"

Soundwave, amazingly, stopped. "Apologies: Did not mean to upset you," he said gently. The pomeranian barked bitterly at that.

"Oh, please," he sneered, huddling into himself; his optics fervently looking for a way to get around the blue mech and to a more open space. He disliked being cornered. "It's very obvious you don't give a slag about my feelings. Otherwise, you wouldn't have condemned me to this life of breeding imprisonment. And you know what I say to bastards who spout meaningless apologies? FRAG OFF!"

Soundwave actually flinched a little as the autodog screamed at him, but did not budge anymore than that. Trembling, Tracks turned away from him, coolant filling his optics and his intakes starting to come in faster, panicked bursts. He would not let this fragger see him cry, he vowed, he would not let them beat him down. The escort had only ever had himself to rely on... to trust... No one else would help him. No one else would give him his freedo-

"Inquiry: Would you like to leave?"

Slowly, ever so slowly, blue optics turned; staring at the kittycon in shock. Soundwave did not move forward, nor did he say anything else. Instead, he merely lifted a servo, holding it out for Tracks to take. His visor gleamed in the light, fixed on the upset mech gently.

A slender, shaking servo started to raise, reaching out for the larger one.

The persian held his intakes, ears perking in anticipation. His frame tensed, waiting for that lovely servo to rest into his own, ready to pull the pomeranian close to him and possibly offer some comfort to the distressed autodog.

It should come as no surprise then, that Soundwave was utterly stunned when Tracks just ran past him, disappearing once again into the farther depths of his apartment; hiding from the kittycon. Servo dropping back down to his side slowly, the persian stood standing by the window for a klik or two more, before he vented softly and turned to leave.


	19. Chapter 19

He hissed a little as he slipped his pants on, a painful twinge radiating from his valve. It only served as a painful reminder...

_He shivered on his berth, rolling and curling into the sheets; strained whimpers falling from his vocalizer. His chassis was hot, almost blisteringly so. It was painful, but that pain only brushed at the large void inside him; a hole that desperately longed to be filled and sated. Even with the cloud dampening his processor, the autodog knew what his condition was, but was perplexed by it all the same. Since moving out of his youngling years, as with any other 'bot, his heat cycles came far and few between. He hadn't had such a cycle in a few good megacycles at least, and nowhere near as intense or painful. Another charge ran through his systems, making the mech whine almost piteously into his pillow; writhing as his core temperature increased another notch. _

Weak... That's what he had been. Weak. Rodimus made a face in disgust, keeping his optics away from his berthroom's mirror. The last thing he wanted to see that morning was his own face, and his shameful, coding-driven frame.

_His berthroom door creaked open, and went nearly unnoticed by the tortured golden retriever until the sound of heavy intakes reached his ears. His body went nearly rigid with the sound, core temperature sky-rocketing at the presence of another mech. Wearily, Rodimus twisted his helm to the doorway, optics gazing dazedly up at the kittycon looming over his berth. Blackout stared down on him, red optics and faceplates amazingly neutral. "You called me," the panther rumbled, not so much asking as stating._

_Rodimus whimpered as another charge flitted through his chassis, nodding his helm rapidly in answer. _

_Blackout did not move from his post, gazing down upon the autodog still. "You never call me from your house phone, let alone invite me into your home," the kittycon continued._

It had come on so unexpectedly... and the autodog had not thought his heat cycle would have struck again. He was still debating if it had been heaven-sent that Ultra Magnus was currently out of town for that conference, or if it was a curse in disguise. Considering that he hadn't had the discretion to not invite that flea-bitten kittycon to his home, Rodimus was currently seeing it as an ill-fitted twist of fate.

_The golden retriever arched against the berth at a painfully strong charge, servos twisting the sheets violently. The sight increased the heaviness of the panther's intakes, a hungry light coming to the other mech's optics; yet still, Blackout did not move._

_Rodimus growled as he was further denied relief; pushing himself up shakily and grabbing hold of the kittycon's shirt. "Hurry and take your slagging clothes off," he hissed, tugging harshly on the hem in his fists. His anger evaporated almost instantly, his heat cycle making his emotions rapidly switch. He whimpered again as his lust spiked, the golden retriever nuzzling the other's chassis as his servos desperately pulled at the knot in Blackout's track pants. "P-please...," the autodog begged. "P-please, fr-frag me...!"_

_This time Blackout responded._

Rodimus cringed again, this time in disgust as the memories from the night before replayed in his helm. He couldn't... he was... Growling, the autodog ignored his aching valve, putting on the rest of his clothes jerkily, anger and contempt coursing through him. He hated that panther. Despised him. It was all his fault that Rodimus had grown so comfortable with his sins; no doubt, Blackout was somehow responsible for bringing his heat cycle about again.

_Faster than he had expected, Rodimus found himself pinned to his berth, legs pulled apart by the larger mech's claws. The autodog was left howling at the sudden assault, his hyper-sensitive sensor nodes bringing him to a quick overload. Rodimus groaned as the pixels reoriented themselves in his optics, shivering as he felt the big cat start to piston his hips. His chassis was beginning to heat up again; his systems started burning once more. That rapid overload was hardly enough to satisfy the golden retriever in his heat cycle, and he knew that the panther would not be so easily satisfied either. Pushed deeper into the berth, the hulking kittycon growling above him, Rodimus shuttered his optics and blocked out all sound; imagining that the large claws at his hips were someone else's servos..._

He had to end this. Before that moron mistook this for a step forward in their "relationship". Before Ultra Magnus...

Rodimus shook his helm as he walked through the empty kitchen, grabbing his keys and briefcase off the table before turning to the door.

**xxXxXxx**

"Listen, I really can't talk right now, I've got things to do and, uh... Things!" Swindle tried to shift his cell, cursing softly as he almost fumbled his folders. "What? No, listen, I wasn't talking about you, I just- urgh... yes, right, I'm sorry," he grumbled, managing to balance his load and grab the doorknob to his office. "Anyways- no, I said I can't talk right now. I've got to be somewhere shortly, for um, a meeting and I- B-blackout!?"

The kittycon fumbled his items as he stormed into the room, finding the large mech hunched over in a chair and glaring at him. Swallowing back a little whimper, Swindle hurried to throw his files back together, turning off his cell and scooping the messy bunch up into his arms. "Y-you're um... H-hello Blackout," he greeted nervously, circling around to his desk and dumping everything onto its surface, "W-what brings you here?"

"You've been avoiding me, Swindle," the panther glared.

"W-what? Nonsense, my good fellow," the tan mech anxiously grinned. "I've just been very busy and-" Swindle quickly cut himself off as Blackout rose to his pedes, looming over the devon rex; the corner of his lip component curled with annoyance.

"Do not lie to me, geek," the other kittycon snarled, poking the entrepreneur's chestplates with one big, fat claw. "I ain't so stupid as to realize when someone's ignoring my phone calls, or making sure they're 'sick' every time I schedule an appointment.

"L-listen, B-blackout," Swindle gulped, trying not to look too suspicious as he slid a servo slyly for the gun holstered under his shirt. He leaned back as the bigger mech leaned forward. "I r-really was si-sick, and I w-was just goi-going to c-call-"

"Enough of your games, Swindle!," Blackout roared. "I don't have time to listen to your simpering -no thanks to you, I've already got the answers I needed! The fragging mutt does love his sire..." The panther spit to the side contemptuously. "And it's that old geezer, Ultra Magnus too. I'll... I'll kill him! I'll rip that rusting furball-"

"Woah, woah, woah! Before you get your self arrested for murder, I think you need to re-evaluate a couple things here," the devon rex scowled, not so much scared as annoyed with his client now. "Biggest factor here -that so called 'mutt' you're fragging... is just that! A frag! Two, why the slag would you ruin your life going to jail for him? And three..."

Swindle pulled a file folder out of the chaos on top of his desk, waving it lightly before the panther's baffled face. "I've got some info that is sure to take care of your...problems... anyways. Interested?"

Blackout stared down the smaller kittycon seriously, but seeing as how the tan mech did not flinch or even try to shy away from his looming form, the panther took his seat again; setting his fists on his legs. "What do you got?," he asked, lip components twisted in a snarl.

The devon rex smiled coyly, sitting himself on the edge of his desk comfortably and thumbing the folder open. "Only what I'm guessing you're desperate to hear," Swindle grinned cheekily, trying to hide his sneer, "Our mutt's 'Daddy Dearest' has affections elsewhere..." He trailed off, having said enough to tease the other kittycon without giving away the entire deal.

At the words, the panther stiffened, before a vicious smirk stretched wide across his face. "Tell me more."

**xxXxXxx**

Ratchet sighed as he ruffled through his bag, checking that all his equipment was inside, plus a standard version of basic first aid and CPR procedure book. "Why am I doing this again...?," he grumbled, turning to the autodog walking through his office door.

First Aid smiled good-naturedly, walking up to the older mech and handing him a mug of oil. "Because you said you would, sir. And besides," the apprentice added, "They asked specifically for you. It's understandable that they would want to learn this with someone they were familiar with."

"Yes," Ratchet retorted, a tad more annoyed now, "But why the slag did I agree in the first place? Couldn't Optimus just teach them himself? He's got a license as well!"

The australian shepherd paid no mind to his superior, walking around the office and collecting the rest of his things for the labrador. Ratchet, grudgingly, thanked him, but said nothing as the younger mech took it upon himself to even pack everything into his carry-along satchel. "But it's just a temporary license," First Aid answered kindly, "He does not have an actual practitioner's degree, nor is he a registered medical official, so Jetfire and Jetstorm's lessons wouldn't be considered authentic. If they want their licenses as well, it'll have to be through you. You like the twins though, don't you?"

The old mech did not reply, grumbling and muttering as he headed over to his chair.

"Don't," he growled softly, raising a servo at his assistant, "Put that in. I'm not even going to start the practical anytime soon." First Aid shuttered his optics slowly, before smiling and putting the miniature dummy torso aside.

"Sir," he giggled, "Are you nervous? You're blushing!"

"Am not...!," Ratchet protested grouchily. He turned his helm away from the smaller mech, venting shortly in frustration, running his servos down his face. "...why are they bugging me again? I thought that they'd grown up some after that... that whole sire incident, and yet, they're bouncing around like new-born pups all over again. I tell you, this is just an excuse for them to latch onto me some more! I don't even think-"

"I think it's nice though," First Aid interjected, cutting off the vet before he could get into his rant. The labrador fell quiet, sullenly allowing his companion to speak. Optics shuttered tightly as the australian shepherd smiled at the older mech, cheekplates tinged with a slight blush. "The boys could have done any number of things after Perceptor became unwell, but instead they wanted to go see their sire and ask for his help. It may have been foolish, yes,... but it made them stronger and more confident in the things _they_ could do to help the ones they loved. It's endearing then that they would wish to seek more knowledge from you, someone obviously very respected and admired in their optics."

Ratchet stared at his assistant for a couple kliks, before he flatly asked, "You know about Wheeljack beginning to court Perceptor, don't you?"

The smaller autodog smiled sheepishly, servos cupped before himself. "Well, yes," he giggled a little. "I saw him buying flowers the other day at the gift shop downstairs, and I asked how he was doing. Me and all the nurses are very glad to see him happy again, and to know that Perceptor is better too! Maybe they'll finally get bonded. I think that would be especially nice, don't you?"

The labrador rose slowly from his chair, shrugging off his lab coat and grabbing his jacket instead. "Right, 'nice'... Listen, I'm old and maybe that makes me a little cynical, but if you start spouting about the wonders of love and the season of affection and all that slag," he started seriously, pointing a digit at First Aid, "I will swat you with my stethoscope. Are we clear, First Aid? I don't want to be mean or anything, but you're awfully naive for someone in your field. And no, I don't think Jetfire and Jetstorm are attached to me, I think they're just acting out. Their bout of freedom has gone to their helms, and now they're trying to milk it for all that they can."

"...Wish it weren't me that they were bugging though...," Ratchet finished off, grumbling to himself again. He grabbed his satchel, mumbling what must of have been a thanks to the australian shepherd before leaving the office.

Rolling his optical sensors, First Aid smiled wryly; turning and gathering together his superior's forgotten files. "And he says I'm the oblivious one," the mech whispered, sighing in good nature.

**xxXxXxx**

Tracks stared blankly at the box.

_Golden servos had held it out for him, before they lowered slowly, setting it on the table. "Status: Will not come to see you anymore..."_

Lies. He had been sure of it. Why should he trust the mech that had forced him into this position.

_A red visor tried to catch his gaze, but he viciously turned away, giving the other not even that. Venting softly, the persian respectively stepped back, standing there idly for a klik. He'd almost thought the other had gone, when... "Box: Gift for you. Tracks: free to open whenever you wish. Fact: No obligation."_

He hadn't answered. What would have been the point? Perhaps though his silence had been enough in some way for Soundwave, or maybe Flare-up was done playing around, because security led the kittycon out of his apartment shortly after. Only temporarily, Tracks had thought, certain that the persian would return the orn before or even this orn.

...He hadn't...

And then Flare-up had come downstairs that morning, to dutifully inform him that Soundwave had terminated his account with the company and had even left a large sum behind for the pomeranian alone. As compensation, she had said exactly. He would not come back until the sparkling had been born, and even then, it would be only to collect the bornling. For some reason, that made the escort's fuel tanks roil uneasily.

So he had left a box... Why?

Curiosity could not be reigned in any longer. Slowly, Tracks glanced over his shoulder plating, seeing that his guards were currently preoccupied in a conversation with each other. Releasing one grip on his robe, the multi-coloured mech stretched a servo out towards the box; gently thumbing open the tab, lifting its lid. Inside the cardboard rested a pocket calendar, marked with dates and events all across Iacon for that month... and the next... and the one after that...

Perplexed, Tracks turned the calendar over and around, flipping through the pages, before his optics caught a slight depression in the middle of the box. He put the calendar aside, finding a seam in the cardboard lining the bottom of the box; slipping his fingers inside and prying it open. His ears perked in alarm as he saw a cellphone lying on the bottom, taped to a note:

_'In case you wanted to be free'_

Ears flattened against his helm, Tracks quickly covered up the cellphone, throwing the calendar back inside and slipping the box out of sight once again.

**xxXxXxx**

"Ratchet! Ratchet!"

Optimus turned away from the terminal as two merry shouts punctuated the air, watching warmly as his students jumped from their seats, running for the vet. Ratchet scowled as he usually did, grunting lightly as he was suddenly mobbed with hugs.

"Boys," Optimus called, collecting his files together as he stood up, "Come now... let's give Ratchet the chance to breathe." He chuckled as Jetfire and Jetstorm whined, but respectively released the labrador, only stepping back half a step.

"Hellos Ratchet!," they chimed in perfect sync, black tails wagging from side to side. "How you is day of?"

Ratchet's shoulders slouched a little now that he was free, shifting his grip on his black, medical travel-bag. "Fine...," he grumbled noncommittally. The german shepherd joined the three of them, smiling politely at the older autodog.

"I'm glad that you had the free time this week to come teach the boys CPR, Ratchet," Optimus smiled, "They were really looking forward to getting their licenses, and after..." The security wisely trailed off, smiling brighter, ignoring his little slip-up. "Well, all the same. I'm sure our two favourite boys are sure to be a delight to teach. They catch on fast, you know."

The vet glanced at the younglings' cheerful faces quickly, before venting softly and turning his attention back to the other autodog. "Yeah, I can see that... So, where are we setting up?," Ratchet asked, trying to move on.

Blue ears perked in alarm, an embarrassed blush rising to the german shepherd's cheekplates. "Yes, my apologies," he said. "Follow me. One of the conference rooms has been cleared out and cleaned, so you'll have plenty of space for your training." Optimus started down the hall, and the others fell into step behind him.

Skipping, Jetfire pulled up to Ratchet's side, gently nudging the vet's arm with his elbow. He grinned, ears twitching slightly with joy, as the older mech glanced at him. "Yes?," Ratchet quietly mumbled.

"Just want thank of," the orange youngling smiled, optics glittering as they half-shuttered with his smile, "For doing of what night that did."

The labrador felt something softly clutch at his sleeve on his right; turning, he found Jetstorm smiling up at him just as warmly. "Not having do, but did you," he continued for his twin, "Brave was. Mommy happy, too Uncle Wheeljack... and we..."

The hybrids leaned a little closer, helms turned down to hide their expressions from the vet. Ratchet didn't know if that was a good thing or not yet; he was more concerned about the little chills running up and down his spinal struts, his spark started to pulsate quicker than he was used to in his nervousness. He clenched his servos, ignoring his clammy palms, optics focused on Optimus' back in front of them.

"...we never thank of yet saving us for... Thanking you Ratchet... Mean lots us to..."

The vet felt his optics flash at the soft, whispered words, but before he even had a chance to process them completely, Optimus was stopping; turning to the trio with a grin. Ratchet panicked, for a moment thinking that the twins were still plastered to his sides, but he realized with a strange sensation that they had changed position and now respectively stood a couple feet away from him. "Just in here you can set up," the secretary was saying, distracting Ratchet from his thoughts. "Feel free to take as long as you need today. I'm just going to go take care of some paperwork in the meantime; I should be done in half a cycle. If you finish before that point, you can just take the boys to the front desk. Jazz will take them for their lessons then."

"Um... right," the older autodog gruffed, trying to shake off the haze filling his processor suddenly. Had to be old age... he hoped... "I'll do that then. Thank you, Optimus."

The taller mech smiled kindly, before patting each of the younglings on their helms and heading down the rest of the hallway. Standing their awkwardly for a moment, Ratchet quickly shrugged off the big, inquisitive optics that turned to him then, grabbing the door handle and walking into the empty conference room. "Right, let's get this thing started," he grumbled.

Jetfire and Jetstorm followed after him with a skip, tails wagging behind them merrily.

**xxXxXxx**

The nervous cough was barely heard over the photocopier. Setting his paperwork aside, Optimus turned slightly, his optics meeting with Sentinel's. Keeping the rising blush down, the secretary stiffly nodded at the other autodog, turning back to his work. "Sentinel... I see you've shown up for work finally today."

He could hear the rottweiler shift from pede to pede slowly behind him. "...yeah... Listen," the blue mech began, "Optimus..."

The machine beeped as it finished; quietly, Optimus bent down to retrieve the warm sheets, piling them neatly together with their originals. He turned around, finding Sentinel still standing in the doorway of the copier room, servos fisted in his pockets and a small scowl pulling at his lip components. The smaller autodog refrained from rolling his optical sensors.

"Yes, Sentinel? You wanted something?," he asked.

Sentinel shrugged off a flinch at the question, unaware that his shoulders still lifted defensively at the inquiry. "I, umm...," he grumbled anxiously. "Listen, I -uh... I might have gotten a l-little trashed the other night a-and umm... I might have said some stupid slag..."

The secretary shrugged casually. "Of course you did. You slurred something about disliking Elita, me and how sorry you were," he replied, carefully watching his ex-friend, trying to gauge his reaction. "Unless there's something relevant in there, I don't see how anything you said would be but the ramblings of a drunk."

The rottweiler bristled at the statement, mouth twisting in a slight snarl. "You know the frag well that I said some... some things... a-and I didn't want it to get your helm or a-anyth-"

"What would I possibly let get to me, Sentinel? I've been pretty capable of brushing off everything you've ever said or did to me."

"Y-you..." Sentinel flailed a little, growling lowly as his patience started to wane. "You're full of slag! I said... s-something... and now you're being all... t-this!"

"What's 'this', Sentinel?," Optimus asked exasperatedly. "I don't think I quite know."

The other mech's upper lip component lifted, his optics flashing angrily. "Being nice again! Fraggit, you were pissed at me, and now you're speaking to me just how you used to!," he growled, "You're fragging ecstatic a-and-"

Sentinel still wasn't saying what he should. If he remembered anything about that night, and he seemed to remember a little amazingly, then this wasn't what Optimus wished to hear. "It was just a note, Sentinel," he pushed, "Wishing you to get better. Something anyone would gi-"

"No it wasn't!," the security guard finally exploded. He marched forward a couple steps, looming over Optimus. "Nobody writes notes like that to people they hate! You're just doing this to tease me about the fact that I said I was sorry and that I l-loved you a-and-"

There it was.

Optimus rocked up on pede-tip, brushing a soft kiss on the raging mech's cheekplate; stunning Sentinel into silence. Leaning back, the german shepherd smiled kindly up at the bigger autodog, his optics warm and almost affectionate. "I forgive you, Sentinel," he said. "And I'm sorry too, that I never tried to tell you how important you were to me before now."

Still smiling, the secretary stepped around Sentinel, heading out of the door, spark at peace for the first time in months.

Behind him, his old friend stood -shell-shocked- a servo slowly lifting up and touching lightly at the spot where soft lip components had landed on his blushing cheekplates.


	20. Chapter 20

"And here you would..." Ratchet trailed off, glancing up from his manual. "Are you... paying attention?," he asked tersely, fixing each of the younglings with a suspicious stare. Jetfire shuttered his optics from where he lay lying flat across the floor; Jetstorm hovering over him, fingers pressed against one of his brother's wrists. Both looked equally confused by the question.

"Is course of listening," the blue hybrid spoke first.

"Is wanting to learn of the CPR," his brother added. "Is skill handy having to, no?"

The labrador did not reply to that. Grumbling, Ratchet looked back down into the manual, stalling. He didn't really need to read the thing -Primus knew it was outdated to begin with- but he was certain that the twins weren't aware of that, and really, the vet could use the distraction. Anything to keep from having his attention focused wholly on the two younglings. "Right...," he huffed after a moment, "Then let us continue from checking for an energy pulse and-"

"Ratchet..."

Slaggit... The vet vented silently. Here came the questions. Just like he had expected.

"What?," the mech asked, putting the CPR manual down entirely. It was doubtful he would get back to their lessons anytime soon.

Jetfire pushed himself up as Jetstorm shifted over; both younglings staring up at the labrador. "We wondering... I-is... is momma okay being? Uncle Wheeljack worry seemed, b-but not much so now. I-is... is being that good?"

Ratchet felt he should be angry. Slag, he felt he should at least be disgruntled that this lesson had been nothing but a ploy to get him here... but he wasn't. In fact, the autodog was sympathetic. "Listen," he began softly, leaning back in his chair, "I don't think you're quite-"

"W-we enough old!," Jetstorm quickly interrupted, straightening up.

"Yes! Knowing lots is," his twin added, servos curling in his lap anxiously. "P-please, Ratchet sir! N-not think b-be of us y-young. W-wanting o-only know to a-about momma!"

The vet sighed. "Very well...," he began. He quickly raised a finger, pointing it at the two sternly. "I'll talk, but you both must promise not to interrupt and don't try to do anything rash. Understand?" Two helms nodded back rapidly. Still feeling uncertain, Ratchet shifted in his seat, resting his servos on his stomach when he felt more comfortable.

"Your creator was very young when he got sparked. Wheeljack tells me that he was a very different person before then," the labrador explained, "Still bright, still intelligent, still very sympathetic... but he'd been a lot more open, engaging, full of expression and life. I'm sad to say that the circumstances in which Perceptor was sparked left him... with a broken spark, it seems. He was young. Taunted and teased, his trust shattered and his beliefs almost rooted up entirely. Wheeljack was your carrier's closest friend -and thus, that's why he's the most prominent person in your lives."

"We... had some concerns, specifically about the effect that your carrier's detachment would have on his health and social life." Ratchet paused for a moment. "Through your earlier years, he seemed to be improving, possibly even stabilizing to a point. He was, certainly, much more talkative. But then even those little forms of expression and the like were tucked away under a greater veil of apathy, and Wheeljack and myself started noticing a downward spiral with Perceptor's moods. We were afraid that this constant restraint and rewrite of character would end badly... Particularly in self-harm. Simply put... we were afraid he would completely shut-down."

Ratchet stared into the optics of each of the younglings.

"We were racing against a clock, knowing that the day you became full-fledged adults would be the catalyst that would drive Perceptor that final distance."

Jetfire and Jetstorm shuttered their optics in horror, sharing a quick glance at each other.

"You see," Ratchet elaborated, "You were the only two factors in Perceptor's life that affected how his world would come together that day. Wheeljack was only secondary in importance, but there's a reason why he stayed with your carrier despite everything all these years... among other things. Seeing your sire again... had been an unexpected and frighteningly powerful impact on Perceptor. We saw a glimpse of what would become of his continual mental alterations if things did not change..."

"Then run away...we...?," Jetfire mumbled softly.

The labrador cycled a weary intake for a moment. "Yes... And then you ran away. Seeking a sire you had only just heard about, in hopes that... well, who knows really. Perhaps you did it out of a subconscious need to complete your family. Perhaps you were fulfilling an ambition you had just come up with. Maybe you were seeking to have a sire in your life for once... Maybe you thought it would really help Perceptor to bring your sire back..." Ratchet shrugged. "No matter the case, as we all know, the effect was the opposite of your intentions."

Orange and blue ears lowered meekly at the implied reprimand. At the sight of them, the vet sighed again, shifting in his seat. "I... I don't blame you, nor do I think your actions entirely stupid," he said. "You did what you thought was best, as many other younglings would have, given the circumstances. Thankfully, none of you were seriously harmed and... to be honest, I never thought I'd see Perceptor smile. Even as small as it was. For the first time in years, I saw your creator cry, and smile, and look Primus-damned _relieved_. Emotion. Emotion I _never_ thought he was capable of showing so soon."

"I think... and this is not a medical opinion, really," the labrador continued, "That everything up to now, was good. I think this sudden turn of events was just the jolt that Perceptor needed; to show him that life is never as manageable as numbers and factoids and a periodic table... but even despite it all, there are good things here and people that treasure him. And that those people will always be there for him at the end of the day."

Jetfire and Jetstorm were crying. They wiped quickly at their faces, sniffling in joy, tails wagging merrily behind them. Before he could stop them, they leapt to their pedes, rushing Ratchet and hugging the vet tightly. Cheekplates heating up, the autodog awkwardly patted each of them on their backs, clearly his vocalizer after a few, short kliks.

"L-listen now... T-there's no need to cry," he tried to soothe. "Your creator is fine and s-so are you, and I'm certain that he'll keep improving from here on out. S-so... dry your optics, pups. You got lessons to do..."

"Y-yes...," they smiled, pulling back slowly. "T-thanks being you again. F-for thing of every." The hybrids quickly pecked a cheekplate each, before dashing back and falling into the same position from before. All smiles and sunshine.

Stunned, it took Ratchet astroseconds to realize that they were waiting patiently for him to continue the training.

**xxXxXxx**

"...What are you doing here?" Rodimus bared his fangs, glancing quickly up and down the street, praying that there was no one around to see the kittycon standing on his doorstep, despite it being so late. After his hasty scan, he turned his narrowed optics back to the panther, snarling lowly. "Who gave you any right to come here!?"

"Why," Blackout smirked, "You did, of course. When you were such a little wh-"

"Leave!," Rodimus barked, stepping out an inch, servo balled at his side. "Before I call the cops!"

The kittycon's grin grew, his small, beady optics glittering with dark amusement. "Oh... now I know you're being funny. You ain't gonna call the coppers. You wouldn't want to have to explain that mess to your daddy..." The golden retriever froze. "What was his name again...? Oh, right! Ultra Magnus. Ain't he a bit _old_ for you to be panting for?"

The lawyer growled once before he jumped at Blackout, ready to kill. Anticipating this, the panther easily grabbed the charging mech by the wrists, throwing him back into the house and stepping inside. Rodimus scrambled to get back up when he heard the front door slam shut behind the kittycon but he didn't have the chance before he was being grabbed by the neck and shoved against the adjacent wall.

"P-primus," Blackout rumbled, sliding between the other's flailing legs; grinding up against Rodimus' codpiece, "You're s-so feisty! I love when you growl like that! Means you're all good and wet, ready to take me in. You want to be pounded just as much, dontcha? Betcha been waiting all day for this."

Rodimus twisted and snarled, trying to get free, but the kittycon merely grabbed his jaw, slamming their mouths together. A strangled hiss escaped him as a wily glossa slide into his mouth, that slagging servo dipping down, snapping his buttons undone and fondling his aft. He bit the appendage as it tried to wiggle in deeper, growling viciously when he heard Blackout snarl in displeasure, yanking back a couple inches.

"Why are you so against this, huh?," the panther snapped, grinding harder against the golden retriever. "We've been doing this for months now. You're the one who always needs to be spiked; who comms me late at night, begging for me to pound your fragging aft. I think you're mistaken who needs who in this 'arrangement' of ours!"

Rodimus wrestled a servo free, swiping at the other mech's face. He hissed when he only scraped away surface metal -not nearly enough to harm Blackout, or get him to drop him. "You're wrong!," he shouted, wriggling harder. "I don't need this!"

Blackout narrowed his optics, before he slammed forward again; their mouths colliding violently as he slid his glossa inside the unsuspecting mouth, nipping on Rodimus' bottom lip component, his servos groping the autodog's aft as he rocked against him hard. Finally, a sharp, needy whimper was choked free from the lawyer. "N-no," Blackout panted between harsh bites and licks, "Y-you don't n-need this... Y-you're _s-settling_ for t-this, b-because t-that rusting s-scrapheap of a m-mutt c-can't e-even stop thinking a-about you long en-enough as a son t-to sp-spike you! A-and that to-tortures your p-pitiful, l-lil' youngling s-spark!"

The panther muffled the autodog's hissing protest. "H-he's a w-waste, I t-tell you! A l-loser w-who won't t-take what you're s-so generously offering."

Rodimus whimpered as Blackout kissed him again; fingers clawing down his shoulder plating as the kittycon yanked his pants down his hips carelessly. He could feel the other's claws drawing nearer to his codpiece, and despite how outraged he felt, the golden retriever could not stop the chill of anticipation that ran down his spinal struts.

But...

"What is going on here...?"

That was only for a moment.

Blackout stopped rocking against the autodog, looking over his shoulder, disgruntled by the interruption. Rodimus, still pinned to the wall, and his clothes horribly mussed, froze, feeling all of reality up-end over his helm. Ultra Magnus stood in the doorway, servo still on the doorknob; his suitcase and a small gift bag held loosely in the other. His callous gaze was fixed on Blackout, before it slid down to Rodimus... and the younger mech felt his spark sink to his fuel tanks. Not caring for how mute or meek his partner had gone, the panther casually pulled away from Rodimus, straightening out his coat and sliding his servos into the pockets.

"Sorry for disturbing the reunion," he muttered nonchalantly, stepping around Ultra Magnus and walking out the door. Nobody moved. Pausing, Blackout glanced back quickly, winking at Rodimus with that cruel grin before he made his way down the front steps.

The golden retriever only had a moment to feel his servos curl into fists; rage piercing through his dazed and frightened state. That fragger! He'd planned this!

The door slammed shut again, tearing Rodimus away from any other thoughts about Blackout and revenge, reminding him, like a punch to the gut, exactly who had walked in on them. Tears glazing his optics, he nervously turned his helm to Ultra Magnus, flinching at the look the older mech was giving him.

"You had a strange mech in my home..." Steel blue optics were flat; angry.

The younger autodog swallowed. "Y-yes, but I-"

"You were... are..." Ultra Magnus paused, jaw tightening as he struggled for the words. "Pursuing relations with him then?"

"N-no! I-i'm not- I-i'd never-" Rodimus couldn't speak. He was tripping over his words, chestplates squeezing and squeezing until he was fighting for every intake.

The great dane straightened up further at his poor reply, his scowl deepening in the dim light. Again, the younger mech flinched. "I see," he continued lowly. "Then you are merely messing around. Inviting strangers into my home... Progressing with these... ill acts, with no intent of seeking something more dignifying."

The golden retriever bowed his helm, trying to hold back his whimper. His shaking servos moved slowly, trying to straighten out his clothes; make himself appear more suitable before his foster dad and crush. He hoped -prayed- that Ultra Magnus would forgive him; say it was just normal, youthful behaviour. Ensure him that it was okay, and that he didn't hate or think any less of the younger mech for it.

"...You disappoint me Rodimus."

But those were stupid things to ask for. Primus didn't exist, and he certainly didn't care about his "creations", either.

Rodimus stood, stunned, as Ultra Magnus brushed past him; the great dane's pedesteps echoing loudly down the hall and up the stairs, before silence once again descended, choking everything in its grasp. Slowly, bit by bit, the last of his hope and strength crumpled and turned to dust in his servos... Ashamed, disgusted, scared and tormented, the golden retriever collapsed to his knees. Trembling servos cupping his mouth as he finally broke down into tears.

**xxXxXxx**

Blackout leaned back into his couch, ignoring the rusty springs as they screeched and whined at his weight. His gaze was fixed on the small, flickering t.v he kept just in the corner of the room; mute, half-garbled vocalizers speaking through the busted speakers, a round of laughter coming from the audience and drowning out the rest of the actors' words. He thought to change the channel, because he hated this kind of slag, but he was far too lazy to get up and scavenge through the darkness for the remote and he still had to change the bulb in the main room of his apartment.

Taking a deep drag from his cygar, the panther lowered his servo to the floor, rifling it around aimlessly. Something scurried about in several directions at his motion, but he paid them no mind, pulling an open, half-finished bag of bolts up to his lap.

He had to wait, he reminded himself firmly, making sure to repeat it every couple kliks. Patience, he would admit, was not his thing really. It had been brutal enough just pulling away from Rodimus, when he'd had the autodog good and charged beneath him. Blackout had wanted to growl at Ultra Magnus' interruption. Maybe even deck the stupid fragger and get back to pounding his delicious mutt. But that would go against his plans...

_'What if they don't get into a fight though?,' _a little voice niggled at the back of his processor. _'What if that big, dumb fragger actually doesn't mind and him and the mutt make up, with kisses, rainbows, sunshine and lollipops? What if they even-'_

Blackout quickly squashed that train of thought before it could progress any further. He had to remind himself this time that the expression that Ultra Magnus had left upon him leaving, was anything but pleased. And that, in itself, should be enough to ensure that there would be no confessions and 'long-awaited' frags either. Now, the panther just had to lay low for a little bit. Let the two autodogs stew in their tension, until Rodimus came seeking him out.

The kittycon sort of hoped it would be in tears; panting to be taken again, spouting apologies for his callous behaviour and his stupidity in ever holding the great dane in higher regard than him.

But of course, he wasn't going to put all his faith in something that was especially naive, Blackout knew.

In the meantime, he would amuse himself, knowing that Rodimus would come looking for him. And when that happened... The panther glanced at the folder he had gotten from Swindle, sitting innocently on top of a pile of crap. When that time came, he'd have a wonderful, little surprise to share with the arrogant autodog. Blackout smirked.

He couldn't wait.

**xxXxXxx**

"You still working on that?"

Perceptor looked up from his work, finding Wheeljack standing before him; one servo on his hip and the other slinging a dishtowel over his shoulder. Confused slightly by the question, the border collie canted his helm to the side an inch, not aware that doing so made him seem utterly adorable. "I do not understand what you are stating," he said.

Trying not to blush -though he did nothing about the smile spreading across his face- Wheeljack only chuckled, waving a servo casually. "Don't worry about it, Percy," he replied. "Let me get you some coffee, now that the dishes are done."

The scientist shuttered his optics as the other mech left the room, surprised. "I had not requested that you do the dishes," he began when the bulldog returned.

Wheeljack grinned brightly, gesturing for the smaller autodog to open his servos. Perceptor did so immediately, accepting the steaming cup of oil from his friend. Taking a sip from his own, Wheeljack seated himself beside the scientist on the couch; little tag wagging as their hips touched. "Well, you didn't have to ask me, Percy. Seeing that you were so focused on your work after dinner, I took it upon myself to do them. The boys wanted to help, but I could see they were tired, so I sent them to bed as well. Now, they'll be sleeping away like lil' cherubs."

Perceptor took a moment to stare at the structured display of charts and formulas that he had spread across the coffee table, before turning his helm to look at his companion. "Then I must thank you, Wheeljack," the border collie stated monotonously, "You have done me a great deal of favours recently, and I have yet to express my gratitude for them."

The engineer shrugged casually, slinging his free arm over the back of the couch. He thought he saw the smaller mech tense for a moment, but it was quick to fade away; Perceptor leaning back into the cushions, appearing relaxed and calm beside the bulldog. Wheeljack's following grin almost split his face.

"... so, what are you working on right now?," he asked after a few kliks. As much as he enjoyed this comfortable silence, he also wished to instigate a conversation, in the hopes that it would give him an opportunity to confess his feelings for the scientist. Cowardly though he still may be, at least he had not been feeling guilty lately for caring about Perceptor.

The bordier collie sipped again at his drink, before setting it aside carefully on the very edge of the table, away from his work. "I have formulated the best method of conversion and changed the equation of refinery after studying it for several orns, giving it an increase of at least .15 percent higher processing rate which should, if my ratio of gathering and stripping is correct, produce a greater quantity of energon while lowering the percentile considered waste or too unsafe for consumer digestion," Perceptor spouted quickly, his servos pointing to several datapads and scattergraphs as he shared this information with Wheeljack. Following (for the most part), the bulldog nodded, finishing the last of his oil.

"Wow... You're really good, Percy," he beamed, grabbing the smaller mech's shoulder and bringing him closer for a quick hug. "There isn't another 'bot on this entire planet that could bounce back as quick as you and still manage to sort through a series of molecular compounds, coming up with such a secure and fantastic method of conversion! You deserve a medal! Maybe, even a vacation."

The scientist was silent during his friend's enthusiastic jostling, quietly pushing away once Wheeljack was done; reclaiming his former spot again. It wasn't hard to notice that he was being stared at, and somewhat confused by that, among other things, Perceptor stared silently at his work before he turned his attention back to the engineer. "Wheeljack...?"

"Yeah, Percy?"

Gentle, blue optics shuttered slowly. "... the short, crude variation of my name. Why are you addressing me as such?," he asked.

Wheeljack looked down on him in surprise. "You mean, why am I using your nickname?," he replied.

"Yes," came the quick reply.

Smiling, the bulldog turned his helm forward, slinging his arm back over the couch. "...You remember when we were back in highschool, and I started calling you Percy? You hated it at first -thought I was treating you like a lil' kid and all that- but then you were okay with it and I called you Percy all the time..." He lowered his optics, staring down at his lap as his expression turned wistful in remembrance. "I think I stopped calling you it after we came here... Didn't feel right. Felt like I was asking too much or something, when the only purpose of coming to Iacon at the time, was to be there for you."

"You," Wheeljack turned and looked at the silent border collie, "You were my best and only friend, Perceptor. And even though we've been blessed so much, with so many new friends and acquaintances, you'll always remain the closest person to me. I want to do all in my power to repair the relationship we once had; make it stronger and just as trusting a bond as when we were just two younglings, dreaming of bigger things. Is that... Would that be acceptable, Percy?"

The scientist had gone quiet. His small blue, optics staring up at him, Wheeljack wondered what sort of thoughts were running through Perceptor's helm as the silence dragged on, and if, maybe, he had pushed too far this time. He was just starting to get knots in his fuel tanks when the smaller autodog finally nodded; fixing his glasses and grabbing the datapad he was currently working on. "I do not believe our relationship needs any fixing, as you say," the border collie said, settling comfortably back into the couch, "But I shall not deny you the chance that you seek. You are also my most significant friend, Wheeljack. No matter what ridiculous names you see fit to address me with."

The bulldog chuckled lowly at the other's final words, inching closer just a tad, before shifting and relaxing in his seat. So, it wasn't exactly a confession, but it was a step forward. And he knew that if he just came outright and said it, Perceptor -as wonderfully intelligent he was- would be utterly baffled and miss the point entirely of his feelings. He only had to give him time, Wheeljack knew.

Perceptor already had all the factors and equations in his servos. He only had to just put them together. And he would. The scientist was nothing if not exceptional at finding the answers to any question.

Wheeljack smiled, stealing himself another glance at the border collie. Hopeful, that the moment Perceptor realized his true feelings, would be a happy time for them both.


	21. Chapter 21

It was a slim bit of plastic and metal. About five inches long, three wide; glowing dimly from its trimming. It was barely enough light to penetrate the rest of the darkness. Then its face flared into life as the little object trembled along the sheets, demanding in its silence for absolute attention.

The watcher quickly covered it with a servo, drowning out its faint light, glancing towards the doorway of his room. He could see through the darkness the far-away glow of the lamps out in the hallway, shining around the lone silhouette of his midnight guard. No sound and no motion came from that direction, and so he knew that he was safe. For now.

Slowly, the mech raised his servo, flipping the cell over and studying its glowing screen. A message had been sent to him, late, like usual. But the sender never minded the time he sent these messages... As if he knew the receiver was always waiting on the other side, lying in his berth, restless. Deliberating only for a moment longer, the pomeranian shifted an inch on his berth, sliding the phone further out of sight; opening the message and reading quickly through the text.

_Today, the cook made pasta for dinner. He served it with a ruby wine. It's colour reminded me so much of you, that for the longest time I did not drink it; only stared at it. I'm sorry... You're probably tired of compliments, but I'm afraid they're the only things I can offer when I miss you._

The cell buzzed again. A new message.

_There is a play later in the week. And there is a gala the day after. A gallery is showcasing it's new collection of crystal treasures. Your optics always did glimmer the brightest when you saw something so beautiful carved in vivid colours and light. I thought you might like to go..._

He never answered.

Never.

Again, the phone buzzed.

_It's late. I must go to bed... Sweet dreams, Tracks._

Another long night... filled with pointless messages

But did that stop the persian from sending them? No... Always, the messages came: short reports of how the kittycon's orn went, what he did, how much he missed the pomeranian, compliments of his beauty, offers for dates...

He should have been angry. Truthfully, Tracks had every right to be pissed. Soundwave had first ruined his life by signing that contract, but now he was forcing the autodog into secrecy through this hidden cell and its late-night messages. If the security guards found out, if Flare-up discovered, there would be trouble, Tracks knew. He could only break so many more rules before he lost everything. Yet...

The cell vibrated one last time.

Every night, without fail, the kittycon sent one last message to him. And with it, took away all of Tracks' anger, and spite, and bitterness and tears, until barely nothing remained and the pomeranian was coddled within a cocoon of indistinguishable emotions and apathy.

_I'm sorry._

No matter how long he stared, or how much longer he waited, no other message came. It was the last one for the night; sometimes, the last one he heard for a couple orns. Shuttering his optics slowly, the autodog slid the cellphone under his pillow and out of sight. But though he couldn't see it and even though he rolled over in a poor attempt to finally sleep, the words remained vibrant in his processor.

Haunting him as he fell into the blackness of sleep.

**xxXxXxx**

He was in the middle of making photocopies when he felt two brazen servos grab him by the hips. "Sentinel...," Optimus sighed, swinging his elbow back and catching his ex-friend in the chestplates before his servos could wander any lower.

The rottweiler backed up at the jab, coughing, giving the secretary plenty of time to grab his papers and turn around. Rubbing his chestplates irritably, the blue mech fixed the other autodog with a look, scowling deeply. "Come on...," Sentinel practically whined, "Slaggit, you said you liked me! Why are you resisting?"

The german shepherd frowned in return. "I did not say that I-"

"Well, you kissed me! What, you kiss every 'bot you meet?," the other demanded, crossing his arms over his chestplates jealously.

Optimus didn't know whether to sigh or smile, but eventually settled for an exasperated vent. So, perhaps he had been dancing around the situation since a week ago in this very room, when he had tricked Sentinel into confessing and ended up kissing him in return. It wasn't as if he didn't have a good reason. Unlike Sentinel, the secretary still had a lot of work to take care, especially since Ultra Magnus had returned, and truthfully, he was still trying to sort out where the two of them stood in their relationship.

A part of him believed he might actually love his old friend back... but the other half of him, his logical self, wondered if he really felt that way about Sentinel, or if it was a misconstrued perception, due to the amount of stress that his life had been put under recently.

Either way, Optimus was trying to be careful. Love the security guard, he might not entirely be sure of, but that didn't mean he didn't care about Sentinel. Hurting his ex-friend was the last thing he ever wanted to do.

Yet, there was no point explaining all of this to the security guard, he knew. Sentinel wasn't one to listen to others when he was angry and considering how selfish he'd been acting recently, there was even less of a chance that Optimus would get a word in edgewise before his comments were twisted around and used against him. "No, I don't," he eventually answered, unable to excuse the fact that once again his ex-friend was accusing him of false crimes. He frowned up at the taller mech. "But that doesn't mean I'm comfortable with you grabbing me at work."

The rottweiler shuttered his optics slowly. "...What about outside of work?"

"Oh for the love of-" The multi-coloured autodog turned on his heel, shaking his helm and walking briskly for the door. Optimus didn't get very far before he was being yanked back into the copier room, a squeak escaping his vocalizer unwittingly as he stumbled back into a firm frame.

"S-sentinel!," he yelped. He tried to twist his helm to face the rottweiler but a mouth latching itself around his throat kept him from doing so; a servo slithering up his shirt and another boldly cupping his codpiece. "S-sentinel! S-stop!"

Fangs pressed into his neck cables, sharp but not puncturing, as the security guard gave a good suck, drawing a small moan out of his captive. Optimus dropped his work in a panic, servos grabbing Sentinel's wrists and trying to push him off, but was forced to stop when the other autodog began to paw fervently at his codpiece. Moaning, Optimus let his helm tip to the side; processor in a whirl as Sentinel continued his groping, warming the secretary's circuits up and rapidly building up a charge within him.

Clarity hit though when he felt his tail nudged aside, heated plating grinding slowly up against his aft.

"S-sentinel -G-get OFF!" The german shepherd writhed hard, lifting a pede and stomping hard on the other's in-step. His ex-friend gave a yelp, ripping his mouth free and taking a step back, just enough for Optimus to wrestle himself free the rest of the way and to whirl on the other angrily. "Slaggit! Sentinel, what is your problem?!"

Sentinel leaned against the photocopier, nursing his poor pede, scowling at the other autodog. "What the frag is your problem?!," he snapped back. "Frag -you came onto me first! What the slag is wrong with us 'facing, huh?! You know how I feel and you fragging like me too, so why are you still avoiding me?"

Optimus hurried to straighten out his clothes, blushing brightly, both in embarrassment and indignation. "Because I don't want to! I already told you I didn't like you grabbing me whenever you wanted, Sentinel!"

"Yeah, because you said you weren't comfortable with it. So, I'm trying to get you comfortable!," the rottweiler argued back. "Jeez, you act like such a fragging virgin sometimes!"

The german shepherd gaped in disbelief at everything his ex-friend had just spouted, but before he could growl back his own response, the door was opening; a friendly face poking in curiously. "Oh, hey!," Jazz beamed, "I thought I heard ya two. Arguing like usual, huh?"

The secretary flushed further at the hinting tone in the dalmatian's vocalizer, bending quickly and scooping up his forgotten papers. Sentinel watched him for a moment, silently enjoying the show, before he turned his attention back to the other autodog, pouting in annoyance at the interruption. "What the frag do you want now, Jazz?," he grumbled in demand.

Jazz's grin grew a couple more inches as he pushed the door open more, leaning casually against the doorframe. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the bulky arms crossed over the rottweiler's chestplates and the dark scowl on his face meant that he would be royally harassed later for butting in on the other's poor attempts to woo Optimus, but the smaller mech didn't care. Not like Sentinel could really do much to him anyways. "Well, I just wanted to inform ya that my shift's almost over, so I'll be heading to lunch shortly. Ya were late coming back to the front desk so I thought I should probably come find ya, since even your radio's been turned off."

"I hope I... wasn't interrupting anything important," Jazz teased subtly.

"N-not at all!"

"Yes!"

Optimus straightened up, frowning at Sentinel in displeasure; getting a pout and a quick raspberry from the security guard in return. Rolling his optical sensors in exasperation, the secretary shuffled his papers together neatly, heading for the door. "I suppose that means the twins won't be coming today," he commented, with a touch of sadness. "They've been missing a lot of classes recently... I hope there's nothing wrong."

Immediately, Jazz sombered up. "Well, life's been a bit of a whirlwind for them," he said, "But I'm sure they're fine. They're tough kids; sure to go big places some day. Besides, Wheeljack called ahead of time to ensure us that everything was fine. Look's like Jetfire and Jetstorm just got a nasty bout of the flu, is all."

Optimus vented in relief, but Sentinel only frowned, grumbling something under his intakes to himself. Beaming brightly, Jazz took a step back out of the room. "Jeez, Sentinel what's with the- woah!"

The dalmatian, not looking where he was going, tripped into another mech that was passing by the copier room that very moment. They collided, one falling over the next, folders crashing to the floor and spilling their contents. "R-rodimus, sir, I-i'm sorry!," Jazz apologized quickly, trying to smile as he picked himself up. "I wasn't watching where I was walking. Silly of me, I know. Let me help ya."

If the golden retriever was listening, he certainly didn't show it. With his helm lowered, Rodimus pushed himself up, not even taking the time to wipe the dust off his pants, before he started hastily scooping everything up into one big, messy pile. He didn't even allow Jazz to help like the security guard had offered; smacking away his servo passively as he grabbed the last of his paperwork, leaping to his pedes and hurrying down the hall in long, quick strides.

Both Optimus and Sentinel stood in the copier room's doorway, watching in respective amounts of confusion and concern. "Rodimus has...," the secretary started quietly, "He's been really quiet lately, hasn't he?"

Sentinel snorted. "He's always been quiet. He's Ultra Magnus' lackey; that mech barely talks himself."

Optimus scowled up at the rottweiler and received an affronted pout for the look.

"Nah... He's not just been quiet..." Jazz stood where he'd gotten up, his optics watching as Rodimus turned the corner up ahead, and even then, after he'd gone, still lingering. "If...," he said softly, "If there's anyone we should be worried about now, it's that kiddo there. Something's up, I can tell... and I'm afraid that nothing good will come out of it this time..."

Optimus clasped the bundle in his arms closer, feeling the knot of worry tighten in his fuel tanks.

**xxXxXxx**

The door creaked a bit as he eased it open, peering through the crack made with one optic; assessing the situation. Still, Jetfire and Jetstorm laid in their berth, coddled under a heap of blankets, flushed and cycling heavy, rattling intakes. Seeing them like this, unwell and out of reach of his help, caused the border collie's ears to flatten slightly against his helm; his grip going tight around the doorknob. "Perceptor...," a soft voice whispered behind him. "Perceptor, come away from the door... please?"

Slowly, the scientist turned his helm to the bulldog, expressionless optics staring at his friend flatly. A little hurt by the look, Wheeljack tried to smile; gently reaching forward and pulling the door closed again. "C'mon... I know you're worried -and I am too- but, you got that meeting with Megatron in an hour. You can't miss it."

Perceptor just stared at the wood of the closed door, before turning around briskly and shoving out from around the engineer. "I am not going," he replied quietly. "I am needed here. I will call and inform the secretary that I-"

"Perceptor..." A firm servo grabbed him by the shoulder just as he started walking into the kitchen. Forced to face the other, the border collie just stood there, refusing to be the one to first speak. Wheeljack vented softly at the smaller autodog's passive stubbornness, releasing him and folding his arms over his chestplates awkwardly.

"Listen, Percy, I... If you're afraid of leaving the boys like this, I understand, but I'm here too. I care for Jetstorm and Jetfire, just as much as you. Which is why I called Ratchet and begged him to come over and take a look at them," the bulldog explained. He turned his helm up then, looking imploringly into the other's optics. "I'll do anything to make sure they're alright, and always put them first. They trust me like that... Don't you?"

The barest flinch came from Perceptor and immediately Wheeljack hated himself for asking the question. Scratching his ear anxiously, he took a step back from the scientist; optics fixed to the floor meekly. "I...um... So-sorry, I... I didn't mean it that way. I-i..."

Perceptor turned and walked away.

Cursing himself, Wheeljack vented heavily, before heading for the door. It was probably a good time for him to leave. He was grabbing his coat, when a small frame slipped before him unexpectedly, one servo resting on his chestplates. "P...percy?!," the engineer swallowed sharply, taking a step back in shock.

The other said nothing, swapping Wheeljack's coat for the portfolio in his servos. The bulldog was mute as Perceptor hung his jacket back up into the closet, slinging on his own as he faced his larger friend again. "I will go to the meeting," he said, before Wheeljack could even reset his vocalizer, "You are correct -I have a duty to fulfill. My responsibility lies in presenting the final results to the client, who trusts in my work and respects my preference for formal finishes to a contract. To cancel or do otherwise after so long, would be both disrespectful to both my client and myself. Henceforth, I will go..."

"...thank you... for staying and helping...," Perceptor added softly, taking the portfolio out of Wheeljack's servos. "For the record: I trust you implicitly."

The bulldog couldn't help it -he grabbed the scientist up, squeezing him tightly in his arms, little tail turning up a whirlwind in joy. Perceptor himself was perplexed. His thin servos gripped at the sleeves of Wheeljack's sweater, cheekplates starting to oddly burn the longer he was held against the other mech; the engineer, in his bliss, subconsciously nuzzling a little into his friend's neck.

He didn't know how to respond; what to say. His friend had never acted so... so... Words escaped Perceptor. In fact, his entire processor seemed to lag and his body stiffened uncertainly as any course of action was made impossible. Confused, almost perturbed, the border collie was gently set back down on his pedes while the embarrassed visage of his companion fell into his line of sight. "S...s-sorry, Percy," Wheeljack said, and even though his mouth was currently covered, there was the tell-tale signs of a shy smile spread across his lip components, "G-got a bit excitable. You, uh, you g-go and do your board meeting thing. Wow them away. I'll be here when you get back."

It took a klik, but Perceptor slowly nodded, securing his files in his briefcase and leaving the apartment to a happily waving bulldog behind him. He paused the moment he heard the door click shut behind him; small, blue optics turning and staring at the wood and its brass number nailed to the door.

Processor starting its slow, analytic calculating, the scientist faced forwards again, continuing down the hall.

**xxXxXxx**

They waited as best as they could, squirming and venting weakly under their covers, until Wheeljack had finished checking in on them, promising to pop off downstairs quickly for something light to eat and then disappearing. As soon as they heard the front door close again, Jetstorm threw the sheets off, turning and rolling onto Jetfire; limbs flailing as each youngling tried to grab and touch the other, mouths locked into a sloppily kiss and hips gyrating against whatever they could.

"B...b-brother! Brother! Brother, brother, brother!," Jetfire wailed, jerking hard under the other's frame. It took barely kliks before the youngling overloaded with a wheezing sob, causing Jetstorm to topple into his own overload shortly after.

Still, the blistering inferno remained and their systems begged for release.

"B...b-brother, w-want..." Jetstorm whimpered, clambering onto Jetfire's lap, hips twisting, "H-hurts... Is a-ache of s-so bad! M-make stop... p-please, b-brother..."

The other twin nodded in understanding, grabbing the blue hybrid's hips. Sitting up awkwardly, Jetfire latched his fangs onto his brother's neck, wriggling and thrusting up into the whining youngling as much as he could. There was no time for sweetness or gentleness that they usually shared in these intimate moments -the ache was too strong, and the heat too great. All it demanded right now, was closeness. Action. Immediate pleasure. Release.

It took merely astroseconds before they overloaded again, frames trembling as they hung suspended in the moment.

Panting softly, the two younglings stayed where they were, twined around each other as they tried to catch their intakes. For a moment, they felt relieved, even tired... but the heat started to stoke again from the embers they had worked it down into and both hybrids whimpered in dismay. "W-why...," Jetstorm cried, twisting out from under his brother, grabbing his pillow and clutching it to his frame, "Why i-it s-stop not? I-it done should b-be!"

Jetfire didn't know what to offer the other youngling. Already he was sliding his servos between his thighs, tempted to ease the ache growing, but holding off for as long as possible.

He turned away the moment he heard his brother sob though, hugging him tightly as he petted him in partial comfort. "I-it... it s-soon p-pass, brother," he soothed, "H-heat e-ever not s-stay long. K-knowing that y-you."

"B-but, hurts!," Jetstorm protested. His frame was already heating up again, burning hot under Jetfire's own fingers. He couldn't say that his state was any different though. "I n-not want th-them finding out... N-not want k-know to..."

Jetfire could understand that. Heat cycles were common for them, but never like this. Never this long; never this painful. Trying to keep it secret, to protect their carrier from discovering and to spare them the embarrassment (and possible shame as well), was getting harder the longer that this cycle went on. Even though things had worked for the best from their last incident, it was still too early to risk stirring up anymore trouble.

And this could very well invoke more of it...

Shifting a bit more, Jetfire mouthed the back of his twin's neck, servos sliding down the other's chestplates; skimming the condensation-slicked metal and wiring, teasing.

Jetstorm was just turning to face him, to continue their activities, when they heard the lock for the front door turn. Not wasting a moment, they grabbed the sheets, yanking them back over their frames; smoothing them down, trying to clear away any evidence of the incriminating actions they had just partaken in. It meant they were cocooned in a nest of unbearable warmth, but it hid away their mess and dampened the smell. Costly steps, but necessary all the same.

They could hear voices coming down the hall now, and the presence of two, startled them. One was Wheeljack's for certain... but the other's was...

Jetfire snapped his helm to Jetstorm in alarm, his optics flared brightly.

_Ratchet._

There was nothing to do though. They had nowhere to hide and nothing for them to do. The vet would see past their silly tricks, and well...

Their heat spiked, processor running rampant with lust-induced thoughts as their heightened senses picked up the familiar, worn and ammonia-rich scent of the vet heading their way. Suddenly calm, the younglings relaxed under the sheets, trying to contain the excitement that ran across their neural nets.


	22. Chapter 22

_"Tracks: would you like to continue this?"_

He looked up at the kittycon standing before him; blue ears lowered an inch in dreadful wait, red visor gleaming bright with attentiveness. This much focus made him feel as if he was the center of the universe.

He didn't like it.

_"Of course." _The words echoed in his vocalizer with a delighted sound, but he had not even opened his mouth. That was not what he had wanted to say at all.

The other mech did not notice. Either that, or he simply did not care. Words were words and a content light overcame the visor, and the persian was moving closer towards him; his servo trapped between golden fingers.

No... _wait_... he wanted to protest.

_Stop._

But his wishes went unheeded; unspoken. Gently, the kittycon lifted his servo higher, just as he bent down equally towards the autodog. Warmth brushed over his fingers, conflicting with the cool sensation that touched his knuckles as the metal mouthguard softly brushed the plating, marking the innocent kiss on his frame.

He shivered and the scene pixelated, something strange peeking through the walls of reality. Confused, the pomeranian tried to pull away, but he could not move a single limb. He was frozen in a moment of time, LED screens flashing at him, printing words across the kittycon's frame and breaking up his intense gaze.

_...if you wish to be free..._

Warm arms circled him, thighs spread as he was pushed gently into the silk sheets. Nothing but the entirety of the other's sound filling his helm; taking him, reshaping him, in a haze of blissful calm. Still all he could see was a swirl of colours and reality mashed into several hundred segments, overlapping the golden plating that touched gently on his knuckles.

_I'm sorry... _

"_Would you like to continue this?"_

**xxXxXxx**

White flared in his vision as he onlined his optics, disoriented for a klik. Slowly though, the lethargy and the fuzziness began to melt away and he remembered where he was... but he also remembered other things. Like the low voice speaking gently into his ear, cupping him close; large servos sliding down his back, keeping him near and protected. Instinctively the mech hugged himself, one servo clawing at the ear that had bent slightly at the soft whisper, wishing to erase the sensation entirely.

Curse that kittycon.

Tracks turned angrily on the berth, swiping his servo under the pillow behind him as he fought to bury all the pestering thoughts away in his helm. His slender fingers curled around the cell beneath tightly, dragging it out, without a care or concern about any guards that may have been around. The pomeranian half expected there to be a slue of texts waiting for him already that morning, but there was nothing.

Not a single message.

Stunned, he sat there, staring at the simple screen. He felt anger slowly stir within him, alongside a pressing nauseousness, as Tracks gripped the phone tighter, fingers digging into the seams of the phone. Why wasn't there a single message? Had the kittycon somehow planned this? Sent him relenting text after text until he couldn't even recharge without that fragging mech invading his thoughts- and then vanish, only to torment him further with the messages' sudden absence?!

The fragger!

With a short growl, the pomeranian whipped the cell away from him, hearing it crack and thud somewhere in the bathroom, clattering out of view entirely. Tracks did not even have time to enjoy his sad victory before a guard was rushing into his berthroom.

"Hey!," the other autodog grumbled, looking around the room suspiciously. When he found nothing, he turned his annoyed optics to the escort. "What the slag you playing at, huh? You doing something funny?"

The multi-coloured mech merely glowered in return to his unwanted warden, pulling his thin pajama top closer to himself in silence. At the pomeranian's refusal to respond, the guard grunted, relaxing his stance a smidge as he quickly surveyed the room again; mumbling under his intakes as he turned away completely.

"...crazy... fragging whore... waste of good looks..."

Tracks growled under his intakes, canines bared at the retreating guard. The audacity of that mech! The simple ignorance of that no-good mutt! If he wasn't being watched like a loony, that stupid guard would have been crawling into his berth, pawing to get under his plating. Just like every other sleaze that wished to have a taste of the costly pomeranian. How dare he act better than him now?!

"Come. You've got breakfast, and then a visit with the vet," the bulkier autodog gruffed. The escort refused to budge at the crude beckon. The guard looked back with a scowl. "Now. Manager's orders."

With a disdainful sniff, Tracks slid off the berth, marching out of his berthroom and past the guard haughtily. He sat at his dining room table, glaring at the plate of food that waited for him there, sickened by every single thing. Oh, how he rather hang himself than eat and further progress this unwanted spawn's production. But of course, if he didn't eat of his own volition, he had no doubt that Flare-up and her immense army of hired idiots would see to it that he got all the nutrients he 'needed'.

The multi-coloured mech stabbed his fork into his sausage.

Curse that femme. Curse that kittycon.

**xxXxXxx**

Dark, red, pungent.

From a five-inch glass, the liquid sat; a tangy pool of promised release to those desperate to drink. Made for general enjoyment -a drink with friends, a toast at celebrations- but pour enough and the high-grade began to transform into a dark river of deep depression and further lies. A poison. Relief...

Yet he couldn't even lift the glass to drink. Sighing, Ultra Magnus turned his helm, glancing at the simple clock hanging on the wall above the doorway. It's little hands moved in perfect pacing around the face, but the sound of even time passing had been numbed from his audios. How had it gotten like this, he wondered, his gaze turning back to the table; its sweet toxin sitting coolly in a glass and a holoframe resting on its back, face-up.

The young, glowing face smiling up at the viewer twisted the shards that had wriggled into his spark, bringing him to this moment in the first place.

Resolve hardening further, the great dane grasped the glass, lifting it to his lip components at last. The high-grade burned, bitter and unforgiving on his glossa, but it was the only thing that felt right. His home had become like a haunting ground; his office barely better. Rodimus had vacated the premises, in silence, checking himself into a hotel a week ago. He didn't give a reason behind his actions and at work, he performed with a cheerful fluidity that was entirely forced and mechanical. There was no talking to the mech; no way of being able to speak in trust and faith with the golden retriever as he had once before.

"...where," Ultra Magnus mumbled hoarsely, his fingers touching the holoframe gently, "Did I go wrong...?"

Only the deafening silence echoed around him, in the dead of night with the mute clock.

**xxXxXxx**

Something had woken him.

Groggy and confused, Tracks slowly sat up, only recognizing at first that it was dark. It was late at night then... he'd had no 'guests' at his berthside, intent on rousing him. Glancing at the nightstand, his optics missed the alarm clock entirely, instead landing on the cell lying just next to it. Its cracked face was black; one servo reaching over slowly revealed that it was still broken. No messages, no visitors...

What had woken him?

A servo slid unconsciously toward his abdomen, rubbing it as a queer nausea began to roil. The autodog didn't even notice his own actions, or the fluttering in his gut, as he surveyed the rest of the room; still trying to decipher the puzzle that was his awareness. He paused when he noticed the rectangle of dim light stretching towards his berth. Light meant the hall, the hall meant his guards and-

...And there was no guard.

Optics shuttered, visual pixels readjusting in disbelief. Still, the doorway remained void of any shape or shadow. Slowly, the pomeranian slid from the berth, one servo bracing the lump starting to protrude from his middle; slipping his robe on for warmth. His pedesteps through the berthroom, then living room, were light, faint, silent -as if he feared that what he saw was merely an illusion of his desperate processor and even the minimal of sounds would call forth his wretched guard.

Yet he made it all the way to the front door of the apartment and still he saw no other 'bots. Tracks didn't know for how long he stood there, in the haze of the barely lucid, before his optics noticed the door across the hall was open a crack. The next moment found him before Mirage's door; servo on the handle and lightly starting to apply pressure, the sound of voices becoming more noticeable within.

"Mir-"

The door swung open with a gush of air, the yorkie stepping into the open doorway quickly. The look of panic painted across his faceplates was suppressed rapidly; his posture becoming more carefully guarded and even -insultingly- relieved.

"T... Tracks? What are you doing awake? It's late; you should be recharging," Mirage said, stepping paste the threshold, slowly closing the door behind him.

The taller escort said nothing, his gaze still fixed to the door. "...you have someone in there...," he mumbled.

At that, the ex-noble stiffened.

The visual confirmations slowly stirred Tracks awake; bringing forth a part of him that he believed had died completely. "Another mech, Mirage? A client?," he continued, tone growing accusatory. "Under the books? That's... that's disgraceful Mirage. Against house rules. You're not allowed-"

"Disgraceful?," Mirage cut in, optics flaring indignantly. "Against house rules? How dare you... How _dare_ you Tracks! You hiss and snarl at any mention of Flare-up or this company due to the trouble you've landed yourself in and then you have the audacity to patronize me with what is or isn't respectable by 'house rules'?!"

The pomeranian was caught off-guard by the sudden turn around in the usually controlled autodog and for a moment floundered to recall where he was and what was happening. A queer flip-flop in his tanks snapped him out of his daze. "T-that... that isn't...," Tracks struggled to reply, "That's... It's no comparison! I'm just trying to look out for you; save you from that glitch's evil manipulations! She's playing you; replacing me with you for those interface-depraved scumbags. You're just another frag toy in a pretty outfit!"

He lifted his servos to grab the smaller mech. "You don't need to heed their demands! There's no reason to take clients in under the record just to-"

Mirage quickly swatted his servos away, stepping forward angrily. "Don't touch me!," he shouted, glaring up at the other escort. "Me? Replacing you? Have you seem me as nothing but a whore as well? Are you that _fragging_ delusional that you can't even see beyond yourself?"

The yorkie jabbed a finger onto Tracks' chestplates, almost scratching the visible plating. "Well here's a news flash for you Tracks: No. One. Cares!"

The multi-coloured mech stumbled back a step in alarm, his servos hanging limply by his sides even though his chestplates hurt from where he'd been poked. "B-but-"

"But nothing!" Mirage was hardly finished just yet. "You," he growled, "Have done nothing but scream, and fuss and cry and whine about everything since the results came in. I've tried to be sympathetic, to be a _friend_ to you, but you just threw that all back into my face and turned me away in anger. Now you sit here and accuse me of being nothing but a substitute to you; implying that I'd sneak 'bots into my berth to fulfill some sort of quota for that femme? Like, what the frag?! You obviously know nothing about me and you certainly don't care to learn either. So frag you and your selfishness!"

"Y-you... you have a mech in your room!," Tracks shouted back, desperately clutching at straws to remain from being overwhelmed by everything the blue autodog was saying. "Don't tell me you're not fra-"

"Believe it or not, I don't actually feel the need to get _stuffed_! Not unlike yourself, you stupid, whiny slut!"

Silence dropped around the two escorts, chasing the tail end of the cruel insult like a rat.

Venting slow with smouldering rage, Mirage glanced away, unable to look at the pomeranian any longer. "...Flare-up doesn't know, Tracks, and I haven't slept with a single 'bot since I had the misfortune of taking this job," he started quietly. "The... The mech in my room is... He's not a client. He's nobody. But he makes me feel like an actual person and he hasn't demanded anything of me. Ever."

Helm turning up, Mirage met Tracks' optics; his expression solemn and resolved. Still, the multi-coloured mech had yet to say anything. "...he wants a relationship with me- a real one. And for that, along with many other reasons, I... I'm leaving. Tomorrow, I give Flare-up my resignation."

"Tracks...," the ex-noble sighed, the hardness seeping from his expression finally, "I'm saying this not to upset you or imply anything, but... You need to stop this. I understand you're angry and scared and horrified at what you're being put through, but you were aware of the risks when you came into this 'business'. A million of other things could have gone differently, yet you got the one mech whose been nothing but respectful, and dare I say, almost _good_ to you since the very beginning. Maybe it's time you grew up and decided what you really want..."

The taller autodog stood there silently; gaze unfocused and barely attentive. Quietly, Mirage stood before the other escort, waiting for a response, yet after a klik, he realized Tracks wasn't going to reply to anything he had just said. This time, the yorkie did sigh, turning and opening the apartment door; disappearing inside. Only after the wood had closed on Tracks' face, the lock thundering in place, did the pomeranian shutter his optics, lifting from his numbness.

He stared for a few astroseconds longer at Mirage's door, turned and stared at the dark doorway back into his own apartment; before something snapped in the autodog and he rushed into the stairwell.

**xxXxXxx**

He figured if the mutt was going to run or anything, he'd come crawling back to this rat pit. Stepping under the drooping arch, Blackout pushed past the buzzed out and leering 'bots, walking deeper into the bar. Beady red optics scanned all the helms -those glancing at him or the ones that were kept down-turned- searching intently. Through the smoke and dim lighting, there was a flash of red and gold.

A smile curled upwards on the panther's face.

"Fancy bumping into you," he jabbed cruelly, coming up to the autodog.

Rodimus spun around on his seat, chucking the bottle he'd been nursing anxiously between his servos at the larger mech. "You fragger! I'm going to kill you! I'm go-"

Rumbling with mirth, Blackout grabbed the screaming mech and tucked him under an arm, carrying him to the back of the bar amidst numerous, prying optics. Rodimus kicked and cursed some more, uttering death threats between hissing moments of humiliation and anger to the kittycon's further amusement. Throwing the back door open, Blackout carried the furious mech over the threshold, tossing him to the cobbled alleyway floor as the light from inside was extinguished by the slamming door.

Picking himself up gingerly, Rodimus turned to face the larger mech, his optics seething with rage and even distress. "I-it's all your fault!," the autodog hissed, words catching for a moment. "We had a deal! You had no right to-"

"Ah, shut it mutt," the panther replied, one large servo covering the other's face, "If you really cared about your slagging reputation, you wouldn't have come crawling back to this slaghole to find me." Fingers clawed at his servo violently; the lawyer twisting and kicking again in such a manner that had Blackout entranced for a moment. When he came to a klik later, he dropped the golden retriever, clearing his vocalizer.

"You're such a-"

"Don't you dare assume I'm here for you!," Rodimus shrieked, springing back up to his pedes in a flash. He swung a fist at the kittycon, banging it off the larger mech's chestplates. Maybe such a punch might have unbalanced a smaller 'bot, but it was barely a brush against his plating for Blackout. Shaking his helm slightly, the panther returned his attention to the lawyer, catching the end tail of whatever Rodimus had been screaming. "-a set-up! You made him think the worst of me! And you're gonna fix it!"

The kittycon lifted an optic ridge at the declaration, looking down on the autodog, torn between smiling or frowning. He went with a scowl a moment later. "I ain't doing a thing, mutt," he replied, snarl slowly curling at his lip components, "I didn't set you up but it sure as slag ain't my fault your sire chose some other brat over you!"

"W...w-wha...?" Rodimus froze, the anger and indignation draining from his faceplates. "N-no...no! You're lying!," the golden retriever yelled back, quickly getting riled up again. He balled both fists, fangs bared and hackles raised. "That's a lie! That's not true! I-i... I'll kill you!"

Blackout snorted, shoving the other away when he attempted to take a step forwards. "Don't believe me, take a look for yourself," he said, unzipping his coat a tad; one servo reaching in and withdrawing a folder.

Blue optics zoned in on the folder and froze there. It could have been a trick, the kittycon knew the autodog was thinking, but even they both knew he couldn't, let alone wouldn't, waste this much credit just for theatrics. Good thing that sleazy Swindle liked to put his blackmail in pretty, maroon-coloured plastic folders with gold trimming.

"I think...," Blackout continued slowly, a deep purr gently beginning to grow, "That it's time you admitted you don't know everything that there is about your 'daddy dearest'."

Rodimus spared him a glare, but not soon after those frazzled optics were dropping again to the folder. Oh, sweet Primus... Could the mutt appear anymore desperate? Swallowing back his chortles as best as he could, the panther slowly tipped the folder from side to side, watching as blue optics tracked each movement fervently. "Well, if you really do trust him..."

Smaller servos snapped the folder out of his claws within the blink of an optic. Biting the inside of his mouth, Blackout looked down on the golden retriever, unsurprised to see Rodimus taking a couple steps back while clutching the maroon folder in his servos. Smirking, the kittycon took a friendly step back as well, sticking his massive servos into his coat's pockets. Just like a petrorabbit, falling for the hunter's trap.

"I-if...," Rodimus slowly started growling, his optics tearing away from the folder long enough to glare at the larger mech, "If you're lying-"

"You'll see that I'm not," Blackout quickly interrupted. He paused for a moment, before turning away completely. There were many more things that he wished to do, but patience was key, and so, he had to walk away. For now. "Happy reading," he said over a shoulder plating, determinedly marching off and back home.

**xxXxXxx**

Another long orn, another lonely night. Soundwave closed the front door behind him, engaging the security alarm before heading up the long staircase. The staff was already gone for the night and his driver would also be heading home now after dropping off his employer. Leaving the kittycon all by himself... as it had been for a while. Switching a light on, the persian walked into a large home office, loosening his tie and draping his suit jacket over the back of his leather chair.

Collapsing in it tiredly, Soundwave lifted the lid of his dinner the cook had been so gracious to leave for him, staring at the steak and roasted herb potatoes for a long moment, struggling to find his appetite. Between the office and home, work was never done and since cutting off his association with Flare-up's Escort service, he no longer had a worthy distraction to take him away from his duties.

Speaking of...

The persian flipped out his cell, opening up the menu and writing up a text within moments. He sent it, as he always did, to Tracks; knowing and understanding that the pomeranian would probably never answer them back. Still, Soundwave felt inclined to make sure Tracks knew he was not alone. After a few moments of staring at the screen, the kittycon vented shortly, knowing that he had more work to do and a dinner that would soon be cold if he did not finish it. The blue mech had just started in on his meal, when suddenly his cell started to vibrate.

Surprised, he picked it up, glancing momentarily at the caller id before answering it. It was Flare-up. "Acknowledgement: Hello?"

"Mr. Soundwave...," the femme's vocalizer came from the other line of the phone, terse and short.

Soundwave felt his fuel tanks give an anxious flop; struck with a sick sense of deja vu.

"We have a problem."


	23. Chapter 23

The oil machine dinged once it had boiled; the black mass within its glass pot bubbling and swirling gently as it emitted a most enticing aroma. Glad for the reprieve, Ratchet got up from his desk, grumbling as a joint creaked loudly at the action. He was lost in his own thoughts before he even reached the counter where the machine sat -something he'd been avoiding the entire time he'd been in his office.

"...slaggit... pups...," he mumbled to himself, leaning against the counter for a moment as guilt weighed down on his shoulders, "Should have... fragging..."

Ratchet sighed. He should have done many things, but he hadn't. He'd messed up big. And honestly, he was surprised that Perceptor hadn't come barging in here yet, demanding his vet license. He was a slagging professional for crying out loud! 'Bots in heat was common in the hospital. He could keep it locked down when handling anyone else- why hadn't he been able to remain in control when he'd visited Jetfire and Jetstorm?

"Maybe... cross-breeding..." The labrador continued talking to himself in quiet undertones and half-processed words, as he reached for the pot finally. He was so absorbed in the hypotheses he was making that he didn't even realize he wasn't on target with the cup, until he'd poured scalding hot oil onto his servo. Cursing furiously, Ratchet slapped the pot down, shoving his aching servo under the sink faucet and blasting it with cold water.

"Bad day, sir?"

Jumping at the unexpected question, the vet turned around, venting heavily as his gaze fell on his assistant. "Doesn't matter," Ratchet replied, rubbing tiredly at his optics. "Did you have something for me, First Aid?"

"Mmm, oh, yes," the shorter autodog smiled, holding out some reports for the labrador to take. "The nurses finished updates on a couple post-op patients, our pleasant old femme has been escorted back to the nursing home, fully healthy, and you have another request appointment at the escort company." Ratchet merely nodded his acknowledgement, taking the files and thumbing through them quickly.

The vet was surprised to see First Aid still standing there quietly when he finally tucked the reports under his arm. "...yeeeees?," he asked warily.

"Well, sir, some of the nurses and I were wondering how the house call went at Perceptor's," First Aid replied. "We heard that the poor twins were sick. Are they okay? Were you able to help them?"

"How did you-" Ratchet cut himself off, groaning loudly, uninjured servo wiping down his face in aggravation. Why couldn't there be one slagging orn in this whole hospital that somebody's business wasn't the subject of conversation? Waving the assistant off, the older mech turned for his desk; collapsing in his chair and cursing quietly once he realized he forgot to bring his cup with him.

"They're fine," the labrador grumbled, as First Aid moved to finish preparing his superior's oil, "It was nothing major. Just a... quick dose, and they were doing better when I left." He paused to receive his cup, lifting it to his mouth before he caught the look on the younger autodog's face. "...Why are you looking at me like that?," Ratchet demanded suspiciously.

The australian shepherd waited for the vet to finally take his sip, smiling casually as he quipped, "No reason." That was the sort of answer that 'bots up to no good usually said- and Ratchet should know; he had plenty of experience with young, rambunctious pups and cubs. Optics narrowing, unconvinced, the labrador drank his oil. Wincing, when the rising steam reminded him of the other night.

**xxXxXxx**

_They were hot. Burning up, really. Coolant glistened their helms and dampened their fur; wetting their optics and highlighting the distracted focus of their gaze. Wiggling the thermometer out of Jetfire's tight jaw, the labrador checked the stats, making a sound in the back of his vocalizer before jotting down his findings in his pocket-sized notebook. "Too low to be a fever...," Ratchet mused, walking around the berthside to check on Jetstorm. "Do you have any cuts, punctures? Ingested anything strange recently?"_

_Two helms hesitantly shook from side to side. Scowling a tad, the vet quickly browsed through his medical satchel, taking tally of his supplies. "Alright, I'm going to need you to pull the sheets back," he said. He'd barely turned around to face the younglings when he heard the frightened meep before it was choked off; optics narrowed, he stared at the hybrids, not buying their weak and sickly, begging facades._

_"I-is not...," Jetstorm began. _

_"Go-good idea," Jetfire continued. "Is s-sick being."_

_"V-very. N-not... not wanting to be m-making of you sick t-too."_

_"I'll live," Ratchet retorted, arms crossing over his chestplates. "I'll need you both to sit up please, though standing is preferable." Neither of them moved. "Now."_

_Whimpering, the twins squirmed and buried themselves deeper beneath the thick comforter, weakly protesting through the material. Getting tired of their shenanigans quickly, the vet stormed forward, grabbing the edge of the sheets and giving them a hard yank. "Listen, it can't possibly be that ba-" The scent hit him before the sight did, stronger than anything he'd ever experienced before in his life- enough to actually send the old autodog stumbling back a couple pedesteps. _

_Jetfire and Jetstorm scrambled up to the head of the berth, clutching to each other as they shivered hard. One arm over his olfactory sensor, Ratchet coughed, shaking his helm hard to try and banish the spell coming over him. "Q-quick," he managed to choke out, tossing the comforter back to the hybrids. "C-cover up, be-before..." He didn't have to finish thankfully, for the twins had scrambled for the blanket the moment it was within their reach; coiling it around themselves, sniffling and keening softly._

_"S-slag," the labrador cursed to himself, using some scented oils from his satchel to chase away the last of the forbidden scent. "This isn't a cold o-or a fever, you're-"_

_"Hey, Ratchet?" There was a knock at the door; Wheeljack speaking from the other side. "Is everything okay in there?"_

_Glancing at the younglings and their frightened, pleading optics, Ratchet sighed, rifling through his bag as he rapidly tried to think of what to do next. "Wait right there," he instructed of the twins, heading for the door and quickly slipping out. Wheeljack stood waiting for him, brow furrowed uncertainly and helm canted an inch upwards as he tried to scent out the strange smell in the air. "Yes?," Ratchet asked, shutting the door immediately._

_"Um, I... I was just wondering...," the bulldog started slowly. Pausing, the engineer shook his helm, starting over again. "Uh, yeah, sorry, I was just wondering how it was going in there. Does it look like they have a fever or-?"_

_"I don't really know," the vet vented, cutting the other autodog off. He was lying through his denta, and he knew it, but what else could he do? Inform the not-sire of the two hybrids and have them even further embarrassed beyond what they already were? "Listen, until I can properly induce what is the cause of their illness, I'm going to need you to run to the nearest pharmacy and pick up a few more supplies," Ratchet hurried to tack on, pulling out his credit card and a list, pushing them into Wheeljack's slack servos, "I'm short a few things and I don't think I'll need them, but if that ends up not being so, I'd prefer to have them handy then and there."_

_"Well, uh, not that I would disagree with you on that...," Wheeljack mumbled, confused, "But I just don't... I mean, Percy entrusted me with their care. I just don't think I should be running out and leaving them alone, you know? I mean, what if they need me or something?"_

_"And what will you do?," the labrador countered, scowling. "Can you produce Quinine out of your aft? Or maybe you keep a stash of sulfamethoxazole in the cupboard, right beside the cookie jar? Listen, Wheeljack, they'll be under my supervision the entire time and I won't be going anywhere until you get back. The best thing that you can do for them is run to the pharmacy and pick up the few things I'm missing from my case. Otherwise, what help can you be?"_

_It was a logical standpoint, if not harsh in its phrasing. Ratchet felt a twinge of guilt once he'd finished his spiel, but remained his outward callousness, in hopes that the engineer did not see past his lie. Wheeljack himself fidgeted minutely in place, picking at the corners of the paper list as he avoided the vet's optics. After almost a klik, he sighed, shoulders slumping as the air was cycled out of his intakes. "You're right," the bulldog admitted. "I certainly don't have the medical experience required to help them like you can, so, um... Yeah, I'll go. Just these things, right?" _

_The labrador nodded._

_"Alright, alright...," Wheeljack mumbled to himself, straightening up. "I'll run down the street then and get these things quickly. Take care of our boys until I get back. Promise, Ratchet?"_

_"I promise," the older autodog replied, this time in complete honesty. The other mech grinned behind his mask, wishing Ratchet luck in figuring out what afflicted the two hybrids in the other room, as he headed for the front door; grabbing his keys and cell and coat, and disappearing out the door._

_After a klik, the vet groaned, running his servos over his face and trying to regain his composure as he turned to re-enter the berthroom._

**xxXxXxx**

"Are you sure you guys are feeling well?" Wheeljack piled up the breakfast dishes, putting them in the sink to wash later. Despite doing this, his attention was fixed on the two hybrids sitting at the small dining room table. At his inquiry, Jetstorm and Jetfire smiled casually.

"Yes."

"Is good being."

"You sure, sure," the bulldog pressed, "I mean, you had a really bad fever the other day, but you recovered pretty fast, and I-"

"Uncle Wheeljack," the twins whined, patting the table. "Going to late be for schooling. Is missing too already much!"

Chuckling a little, the engineer picked up his pace. "Alright, alright," he acquiesced, putting lunches in the twins' backpacks and zipping them, "If you're not feeling well though, you just tell me and I'll come pick you up and bring you home. I can call Ratchet again... though he's been a little hard to get in contact with since..."

Swallowing hard, the twins glanced each other before smiling again at Wheeljack. They knew that the autodog didn't know what had happened between them and Ratchet the other orn, and though they hoped it would stay that way, they would do anything today to get the chance to meet with the vet again. He'd left before they had come to and the hybrids felt uncertain on where they now stood with Ratchet. He didn't despise them, did he?

It was a question that would have to be answered later, once they were free of the apartment and their sometimes overbearing guardians.

**xxXxXxx**

_"What the frag do we do now?"_

_The question hung in the air as the door shut behind Ratchet, locking him in with the slow-rising, sweet scent originating from the berth. The twins stared back at the vet with wide, fervent optics, innocent and perplexed by the other mech's statement._

_"I-is Wheeljack..."_

_"...gone?"_

_The labrador slowly nodded. "I thought it best to get him out of the apartment before he recognized your scent. I'm guessing that you didn't want either him or your carrier to know that you were in heat." Ratchet paused, pinching the bridge of his olfactory sensor. The scent was getting stronger, making the edges of his vision blur as it worked to compel him to respond to the alluring fragrance. "From the sounds of it, you've been in heat for quite some time. Considering that you're untouched, and the need is great, I suggest a suppressant. I should have enough for both of you-"_

_"No!," Jetstorm cried, kicking away the blankets. He ran for the medical satchel, guarding it tightly in his arms as his brother wrestled free of their comforter fortress as well._

_"P-please," Jetfire practically sobbed. He stood on shaky legs at the edge of the berth; the combined scent of two, rich younglings, in the peak of their heat cycle, like a forbidden feast set out before the autodog, waiting just for him._

_"P-please...," Ratchet heard as the orange hybrid crawled forward, having lost all use of his legs, "Pl-please...," was said as the scent drove away rationality, chip by large chunk, until the vet was shaking in the knee joints himself, battling with the perfumed spectre trying to break his self-control, "A-already seal b-broken... T-tried, ag-again tried... O-over-overloaded... again... a-again... N-need re... R-release... R-ratchet g-giving us r-release..."_

_The vet didn't know what was happening anymore. He was backed against the door, felt the handle poking into his spinal struts sharply, yet it was a dull focus. All of his attention, all of his need, was focused ahead..._

_It didn't take much for the autodog to snap. Growling loudly, he jumped the youngling before Jetfire even had a chance to make sense of what was happening.  
><em>

**xxXxXxx**

"Sir? Are you even listening...?"

"Hm?" Ratchet looked up, surprised to find himself staring into Flare-up's stern face.

"You seem distracted, doctor," the femme stated slowly, "Should I have called on another day? Or could you manage to gather enough focus to give me a little of your expertise?"

The labrador scowled, tucking his datapad under an arm. "You called me for an assessment- not surgery," he retorted snippily. "I'd watch the attitude, pup. As for your escort in question, Tracks is excelling well in his pregnancy. The twins are progressing well; they've got a good weight and development is in par with regular standards. I'd say-"

"Wait a moment," Flare-up interrupted, raising a servo. "Twins? Did you say 'twins'?"

"Yes," Ratchet drawled, still annoyed at the jack russel's call out on his inattentiveness and what was causing it, "Twins. Your 'employee' is blessed with two sparks. Do I need to explain anything else?"

It was a long klik before the red autodog replied. "No. No, thank you," she said, turning and grabbing her phone. "No Mr. Ratchet, further explanation is not necessary. If you'd be so kind as to forward me a copy of Tracks' prenatal files thus far, than I can inform my staff involved."

"And the sire as well, I'm guessing," the vet added. "Don't bother trying to fool me. I know exactly where those files are going to next. What right do you have to demand a patient's private documents?"

"'Right?'," Flare-up replied, one optic ridge raised incredulously. "Those who have the deepest pockets are the ones who eventually call shots for the rest of us, doctor. And right now, my employee's client pays richly to know the health of both the sparklings and my charge. The funds are all transferred into Tracks' account anyhow. He'll have all the money he could wish to choose a different path for his life one he leaves. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Ratchet only grunted as the femme turned away completely, already dialing on her phone's keypad. "All you pups only care about is money," he mumbled, shaking his helm in disbelief. "You think everything can be tagged with a price..."

The jack russel was oblivious though; focused only on her phone and whoever she waited for on the other line as the old mech turned to head for the elevators. Ratchet could only sigh wearily as he went, mumbling quietly to himself still. "You think that it's just sex. But once you put a price on yourself... you're likely to lose more than you thought."

**xxXxXxx**

_Musk hit the air thickly, a wrenching cry erupting from the youngling as he overloaded. Dimming optics flickered on and offline, before blackening entirely as Jetfire slumped, exhausted, on the glistening floor. The vet shifted over the hybrid, still smelling the rich, husky scent of heat but unable to tell where it was coming from. Certainly it wasn't emitting from the youngling beneath him. _

_Already the traces of heat were dissipating from this one as he fell into a deep slumber, sated and full. Growling hungrily, the autodog withdrew from the smaller mechling, turning in his search to find the last, alluring scent. Trembling, the final prey sat across the room, half-hidden behind the berth, squatting on the floor._

_Wrenching off the coat and shirt covering his frame, the labrador hurried to chase down the final twin, growling deeper as the succulent fragrance grew tenfold. Like with the orange youngling, his twin was quick to finish; crashing against the floor as the autodog continued, until the vet came to his own overload._

_Snuffling momentarily in the crook of the mechling's neck, he withdrew, soreness settling uncomfortably in his joints as the heat-induced haze started to lift. "W-wha..." He was starting to come back into the recognition of self, leaving Ratchet with a deep, gut-wrenching guilt as he stepped away from the slumbering Jetstorm; horrified and disgusted with himself._

_"Frag... Should... Frag... Slagging mes... I..." The labrador grumbled to himself in quick, muffled tones, cursing up a storm as he anxiously gathered all of his things and put his clothes back on. He took a daring step outside after that, grabbed some fresh sheets from the linen closet in the hallway, stripped and remade the berth before throwing the dirty shirts deep into the bottom of the laundry hamper. As he went about things, Ratchet began to shiver with disbelief and further guilt, alarmed that he had lost control like that and what he had done to both of the twins._

_Grabbing a bucket, filling it with some warm, soapy water, and grabbing a clean clothe, the vet returned to the berthroom to wipe each of the hybrids' down. He dressed them in clean pyjamas and carried them gently to the berth, tucking them in snugly, followed by one final tidy up of the room. The old mech was surprised that neither Jetstorm or Jetfire had awoken during this entire process, but Ratchet knew (and it made his fuel tanks churn violently in ill) that the strength and length of a heat cycle could bring about a short, comatose-like sleep once finished. Contemplating what he was gonna do next, the autodog literally jumped when he heard the front door close._

_"Ratchet?," Wheeljack called. "Hello?"_

_Quickly, the vet grabbed his satchel and left the berthroom, making sure to close the door softly behind him. The bulldog was already walking down the hall, waving a small, white paper bag around. "I picked up what you needed. Are they-"_

_"Ssh," Ratchet hushed immediately. He scowled, trying to keep his shame hidden even though it wriggled like a poisonous viper inside of him. "I didn't end up needing them, but thank you," the vet continued, taking the bag, "They're sleeping at the moment. Let them rest and give them some soup when they wake up."_

_"Oh," Wheeljack shuttered his optics, "Okay. Um, wait! Ratchet, where you going?!" The engineer turned to stare at the labrador as he shoved past in a hurry, heading straight for the front door._

_"Sorry Wheeljack," Ratchet called over his shoulder, not even slowing, "But I'm needed back at the hospital. You can take things from here." And then he was out the door, almost running as he rushed to get away. Back in the apartment, Wheeljack locked the door, scratching at the back of his helm in confusion._

_"...I wonder what that was all about," he mumbled to himself. Shrugging, the bulldog walked down the hall, peeking into the twins' berthroom quickly. Seeing them sleeping peacefully, he smiled, closing the door again and looking to the front door, brow furrowed in puzzlement once more._

**xxXxXxx**

It hadn't taken much effort to slip away from City Hall and cross the square for the hospital. They only had half of the usual classes this orn, and even then they were one short for some reason. The explanation was that a possible bug had infected their poor big brother Rodimus. Though it saddened the twins that they were denied less time than per usual with the autodog, it still was a help, in that it allowed them to take an early -and long- lunch. Enough time to easily escape Sentinel's lack of supervision and make their way unhindered to the hospital.

Jetfire and Jetstorm were certain they would make it back in time before their next lesson and before the security guard figured out that they'd left City Hall premises, with plenty of time to spare afterwards too, no doubt!

"W-what...," the orange youngling stuttered for half an astrosecond, "Meaning what you say 'he not in'?"

The nurse smiled apologetically from behind the desk. "I'm sorry, boys, but Dr. Ratchet is not here at the moment. Maybe you'd like to stop by tomorrow or leave a message for him?"

This was... unexpected... and suddenly they were feeling sick to their fuel tanks.

"No...thank you no," Jetstorm hurried to say, taking a polite step back from the nurses' station. "Just, will... be will trying of morrow to."

"Brother...," Jetfire whispered as they turned away and slowly headed for the elevators, "W-what mean this? R-ratchet not never being here... I-is... is upset? I-is mad?"

The blue hybrid tried to refrain from wringing his servos anxiously as his twin was doing, but he could not stop from picking at a loose thread in his sweater with great fervor. "Know...knowing not," he replied, ears flattened against his helm. "R-ratchet... Ratchet enjoy thought. C-claim doing R-ratchet. L-like of him us be, b-but... but be of m-may..."

The words hung in the air between them, unsaid, terrified that they may be true. After all, for all intent and purposes, Ratchet had seemed to like them well enough and he had not resisted much when it came to easing them of their painful cycles. Surely someone who did not care or find them mildly attractive wouldn't respond to their heat scent... right?

The elevator doors opened up on the two, depressed younglings, just as First Aid was about to stroll out. "Oh, hello!," the assistant greeted cheerfully, coming to a pause. "Jetstorm and... Jetfire, right? Are you two feeling better? Oh, you're heading down right? Here, I'll come with you."

First Aid moved out of the way, ushering the twins in, even though they shook their helms and politely tried to refuse. Afraid and confused, at the moment, they just wished to be alone. The australian shepherd was having none of it though; he hurried the younglings into the elevator, blocked their path out and pressed for the ground floor after the doors had closed. "I'm glad to see you're both doing so well," the white mech smiled. "Everyone heard that you had such a dreadfully frightening fever of some sort; some of the nurses thought you weren't going to recover so quickly. But I knew, I knew as soon as Ratchet visited you, you'd be better like that!"

The assistant snapped his fingers to make a point, adjusting his stack of medical files afterwards. "I mean, Ratchet, sir, is the best after all! Plus, with everything you've already been through lately, he was so worried about you two," First Aid continued, "I knew without a doubt that he'd work doubly as hard to make sure you two would get better quickly!"

Orange and blue ears perked immediately. "R-really?," the hybrids stuttered together. "R-ratchet... worry? Us about?"

"But of course!," the autodog beamed. "Every single one of us cares about you, Jetfire and Jetstorm. None more so than Ratchet himself. Honestly, he never stops talking of you two. Ratchet, sir, doesn't usually do that, you see. Not unless he really cares about someone."

This revelation was making their sparks pulse faster and faster. Glancing at each other, the younglings hurried to calm themselves before they jumped to any conclusions. It was hard -especially as worries and hopes whispered vocally across their silent bond. "H-have...," Jetfire began, taking point on this one, "Seeing have you, First Aid, of Ratchet?"

"Came we doing so as to thanksies," his brother quickly added, "But Ratchet here not is being and... and..."

"A-and little worried is being he of may getting sick. From us," Jetfire finished. He tucked his servos behind himself to keep from wringing them again. "H-have you know what Ratchet like and being couple last days?"

First Aid shuttered his optics at the twins' concern, surprised, before he smiled kindly. "Oh, there's no need to worry," he told them. "Ratchet simply had a house appointment to make and then he was done his shift for the rest of the orn. He's probably already clocked out and headed home by now. Though..." The australian shepherd pondered quietly to himself for a moment. "Though," he went on, "Ratchet, sir, did seem a little distracted since then. I've never known him to have been sick before, but it's possible that he could have caught whatever bug you two shared."

Immediately, Jetfire's and Jetstorm's fuel tanks dropped in their frames miserably.

"Tell you what," the assistant suggested, "I'll keep an optic on Ratchet, sir, when he next comes in and if you should miss him again, I promise to inform you explicitly of his situation. I'll even tell him that you two came by to visit him today!" What should have been cheerful news was quite the opposite for the hybrids.

First Aid was seemingly oblivious to their growing depression though and the autodog looked up as the elevator doors chimed open. "Well, we've reached the ground floor," he chirped merrily. "I've got to head back upstairs to finish some reports for Ratchet, but you two take care of yourselves, okay? Have a good day!"

With no other choice, Jetstorm and Jetfire stepped off the elevator and sadly returned to City Hall.

**xxXxXxx**

_"Frag you and your selfishness!"_

It was quiet. Exceptionally quiet. There were no walkie-talkies, no sounds of traffic, no elevator chimes, no... nothing. Stirring, Tracks slowly opened his optics, staring uncertainly at a lavender, silk canopy overhead. With some effort, he sat up; one servo cupping his bulging belly, pushing aside the comforter that had been lain over him. He studied his surroundings slowly, confused at the large room and its lavish embellishments.

A large canopy berth, bookshelf, nightstands, dresser, loveseat, chair, gorgeous glass coffee table... The entire room looked and felt like something out of a designer magazine. This couldn't possibly be any room back at the Escorts' apartment. Not even the view outside the large palladian window was familiar.

The autodog didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there.

All he could remember was...

_"Maybe it's time you grew up and decided what you really want..."_

The sound of a turning latch caught the pomeranian's attention. Alarmed, the mech turned to face the only door, a worm of fear wriggling in his fuel tanks.


	24. Chapter 24

**C.M.D: Hello all my dear fans and readers! It's great to be back, and what a better time to post up a brand new chapter than on Valentine's weekend! Though perhaps also bad timing with the upcoming drama... Ah well! With all my love, please enjoy~**

Fingers were trembling as they twisted into the silk sheets, a drumbeat of fear playing a violent tune upon his spark as he waited to see what was coming his way. The door swung open smoothly, no creaking of the hinges or anything, as a white helm popped around the door frame; taking away the pomeranian's intake and terror as well.

"Mr. Tracks."

"Ratchet...," the escort vented, falling back against the incredibly soft pillows. Relief chased off the chill that had plagued him for the briefest of moments, while his spark casually returned to its' regular puttering.

"I'm glad to see that you're awake," the labrador stated, coming forward. The door shut gently behind him. "I apologize for the scare. I didn't mean to startle you."

Tracks waved a servo weakly, still too weak to do anything more. "No, no... It's fine," he replied. "I just... just woke up. I..." Again, he realized he didn't know where he was or how he had gotten there.

"Don't know where you are?," Ratchet finished for him, as if reading the other autodog's thoughts. Tracks nodded uncertainly, beginning to feel anxious as the vet finally reached the berth; setting his medical bag down on the edge of the mattress, before opening it. "It's alright, pup," the older mech added, drawing an otoscope from the bag, "You're in a good place; no harm will come to you. But considering last night's events, temporary amnesia is common. Everything should come back to you shortly now that you're awake."

"What do you m-" Tracks didn't get to finish his question before Ratchet was prodding and poking at him, checking him over from helm to pede. He made a couple more attempts to voice his concerns but quickly silenced himself when the labrador pulled another, more familiar device from his bag.

"Lift your shirt, please," the vet politely asked.

Squirming minutely in discomfort, the escort did as requested: lifting his shirt over his rotund abdomen and staring off to the side as the other autodog squeezed some medical lubricant onto the plating. "They're doing well," Ratchet spoke again, after a few kliks. He wiped up the leftover jelly and put his portable sonar back into his medical bag. "Two very strong spark rates. Rest some more and tomorrow I'll-"

"W-wait," the pomeranian interrupted with a squeak, clutching at the sheets in alarm. "T... D-did you s-say t-two sparks? A-as in... A-as in m-more th-than one?"

There was too much going on, too fast. Tracks felt like he was struggling at sea, trying to keep his helm above water but the waves kept throwing him back under, crushing him. Raising his servos to his helm, the pomeranian tried to roughly rub the sudden, throbbing pain out of his helm; jumping when gentle fingers pulled them away from his face.

"Just breathe now," Ratchet soothed, his optics sympathetic as he gazed into the younger autodog's orbs. "Just a slow breath. Easy... There. Just like that. Take another one for me... Good, good..."

Tracks swallowed and cycled intake after intake, choking between every vent. He thought to cry or scream or something, but terror had him grasped tightly with this new revelation, and nothing could get out. "D-do... I-i...," he stuttered, taking another moment to force through an intake, before continuing in a desperate keen, "C-can't I-i t-termin-nate?"

Ratchet opened his mouth, but with heavy shoulders, shook his helm. Frightfully hopeful optics fell before his gaze, dimming in their collapse.

"I know you've been having a hard time and that you're under a great amount of duress because of your contract...," the labrador shared, taking a shaking servo and giving it a comforting squeeze, "But listen when I say it'll be okay. It's too late to terminate, not safely anyways, but... but you don't have much longer 'til the sparklings are full term. And I'm always here to help, remember that pup."

Soon, huh? Tracks thought to laugh bitterly but he was just so tired and frightened and confused... Strangely enough, the revelation that he was halfway through this nightmare, was both a comfort and oddly not. Ratchet kindly lowered the pomeranian's shirt down and pulled the comforter back over him, as the stunned mech sank deeper into his seat of pillows.

"Pup...," the vet sighed, touching the younger autodog's brow. Coolant-laced optics turned up to him. "It... It's going to be alright. I'm here for you, straight to the end," Ratchet assured, trying to smile in encouragement, "I'll be coming back tomorrow with an ambulance to have you transferred to the hospital for the last few months. Try to rest as much as you can today, okay?"

It was hard, but Tracks mumbled a weak "Okay" and watched as his only ally left the gilded room.

**xxXxXxx**

He couldn't believe it. Rodimus paced back and forth in his motel room, shaking servo to his mouth as he fought to keep from being sick. An inconspicuous folder sat on the messy berth, contents spilled across the sheets; partially crumpled and nearly torn around the edges. What they said... It couldn't be true. How could any of that be real?!

Fighting back nausea, the golden retriever returned to the berth, scooping the pages up again and staring at them intently. This was the umpteenth time that he'd scanned the printed words now and he'd somewhat hoped that it was all an optical illusion or something, yet the page stayed the same. Choking on a sob, this time Rodimus threw the papers away from; dropping his helm between his knees and hacking dryly.

The urge to purge was more persistent this time, his frame wracked with chills, and yet nothing came. It had to be some sort of lie, the autodog tried to convince himself, some sort of cruel trick by Blackout to upset him further. But Rodimus couldn't believe that. There wasn't any proper watermark or signature on the paper, but the golden retriever knew the type of parchment -there was no way that sleazy, backstreet kittycon trash could even afford a single sheet, let alone get it printed with a header in gold. It had to be legit, there was no easily faking it, but...

Primus, how could it be true? Rodimus swallowed back more sobs as the anguish started churning his fuel tanks faster and faster, yanking at his ears in despair. All these stellar cycles of being the good sparkling, of doing anything that Ultra Magnus wanted, of always following through and trying to prove his worth before the great dane... For nothing! To find out that his affections were pathetic, worthless, that he never had a chance and to even think that he did was...

It wasn't fair!

Anger sparked suddenly, flaring into an inferno, as if all the pain he felt was a jug of oil. Lifting his helm, Rodimus stared at the cursed papers scattered across his floor, feeling rage swell up larger in his chestplates, dissolving the knot that had inhabited his throat. Here he was, hating himself because he believed he had done something so irrevocably wrong; that he'd betrayed Ultra Magnus' trust and made a mockery of himself when Blackout outed him. That was unfair.

The autodog got to his pedes, growling lowly as he scooped all the sheets up, tucking them back into their folder. Because of one mistake, he'd had to leave his home. Because of one, little mistake, he couldn't face the great dane at work anymore. Because of one, miniscule, forgiveable mistake, Rodimus no longer could ever hope to confess his feelings for the mech who had raised him like a sire... and yet, it was Ultra Magnus with the real shame. The older lawyer was the one who was keeping the biggest secrets and yet had the audacity to talk down on him?

Rodimus wouldn't stand for this. Couldn't.

It hurt too much to be ignored.

**xxXxXxx**

_Pedes pattered harshly against the sidewalk as he ran, weaving and staggering as his strength continuously swelled and ebbed. Thunder boomed overhead, as lightning flashed alongside her eternal partner; a symphony in the black sky as the clouds shed their tears. The storm had come on so unexpectedly and his thin nightgown had instantly lost against the downpour, yet the pomeranian kept running despite the clinging clothe and sensor-nipping chill._

_He was free. There was nothing else that mattered in this moment than the fact that he had finally escaped Flare-up and her ever watchful gaze. The rain and thunder and wind were testimony to his liberation; they were allies when everyone else had abandoned him._

_Intakes misted in the cold air as Tracks almost slipped, catching his balance against the side of a building. His ankle joint throbbed from where he'd nearly had his nasty fall due to the slickened sidewalks, yet the pomeranian pushed himself back up and kept running; limping and waddling mostly at this point._

_There was no direction in mind; he had no where to go. His entire life had been the apartment he had fled from and the condo Flare-up owned. He had no friends, knew of no one that he could turn to on his run for freedom. Still, he ran. Tracks had to get away, that's all he could think of, and somewhere along these empty streets and rainy displays of traffic lights, he would find a safe haven. Water ran into his optics as he stumbled around another corner (was it rain or his own tears?), jogging down another strip of dark and empty street._

_Primus... he was tired. He was exhausted and sick and just not able to..._

_Pede slipped again on the corner of the sidewalk and the pomeranian fell towards the street, into the path of a lone truck. For an astrosecond, everything slowed, Tracks watching in his descent as headlights flared brightly, swallowing up his entire view as the truck drew closer like a pouncing beast._

"_TRACKS!"_

_A horn blared angrily through the night as vertigo suddenly rearranged itself; the escort crashing against something warm and equally as soggy. He tried to move but his near-death experience had taken its toll on the last of his strength. He couldn't even lift a finger at this point. Primus, he thought, shuttering his optics... Primus, why didn't you take me?_

_Gravity shifted and Tracks saw through one bleary optic that he was rising up off of the sidewalk. He was turned about gently, spooned and cradled, held close in a crushing embrace as rain continued to pour down upon him. It was so cold... The revelation was short to come, but the rain felt like liquid ice as it cascaded down his plating. How had it ever felt warm before?_

"_Tracks... Primus, Tracks..." That same vocalizer, from the angel that had yanked him from certain death._

_The autodog tried to lift his helm, to see his savior, but his vision was beginning to pixelate; draw out of focus and blacken altogether. He only caught a glimpse of red -so soft and bright and full of concern- staring down upon him against a grey-washed world, before exhaustion stole away consciousness, and Tracks surrendered to the warmth and security of his unknown angel._

**xxXxXxx**

It wasn't very often that Wheeljack did laundry for Perceptor (at least not since the twins' were teeny tiny) but he was glad to help out when he could. Perceptor himself had been putting in extra cycles at the lab, citing that he'd missed way too many shifts the last decacyle. Unfortunately, that had put a few of his regular chores aside for a couple orns, and to take care of them (as well as surprise the scientist in Wheeljack's continuous attempt to woo him) the bulldog had taken it upon himself to spend his orn off tidying up the apartment. He'd already scrubbed the walls and floors, taken out the trash, cleaned the bathroom and now the only thing left was the laundry.

Setting down the baskets, Wheeljack first checked to see if the rusting machines were working and clean (Primus, help him if he ever found the person who took a dump in one of the dryers) and double-checked that no one had tampered with the credit slot. Again. Thankfully, everything was in working order, so Wheeljack poured the detergent into the machines respective slots and set to getting the clothes in next. Trying not to blush, Wheeljack meticulously put Perceptor's things in, piece by piece, ensuring that anything wasn't rolled or caught in something else, and turned inside-out like it needed to be.

Not surprisingly, the border collie's things were already as they should be so the engineer shut the door and started the washer. Next was the twins' things, all perfectly prepared as well, and finally towels and sheets. Wheeljack threw Perceptor's in first, but as he reached for Jetfire and Jetstorm's sheets, his olfactory sensor wrinkled, catching whiff of a sour smell.

"What the..."

Slowly the bulldog lifted the flowery bedsheets, carefully prying them apart as he twisted this way and that in study. The sheets were stuck together in odd blotches, dried that way from whatever adhesive coated them; sprinkling little flakes everywhere as parts give way and others didn't. Just what in the slag was on the sheets, Wheeljack wondered, madly confused by the material's state. He hesitated a closer whiff, as a huge section mercifully came apart without tear, and froze; optics flared in alarm as he snapped his neck back.

The sour scent was more distinguishable now, closer to its center, and it left the engineer reeling. Jetstorm, Jetfire... in heat?! When had that happened?! How-?

"Oh sweet Primus...," Wheeljack vented, staring at the wall as the revelation hit him. "They weren't sick, they had been... were..."

His words trailed off silently, even though his mouth kept gaping ridiculously behind his blast mask. And then only one other sound escaped the bulldog as something else struck him.

"Ratchet..."

**xxXxXxx**

Kicking in his fuel tanks had roused him from recharge. Slowly, Tracks onlined his optics, laying in the berth for the longest time; one servo on his abdomen, right above the quirky fluttering. For a moment, he forgot where he was, but then the events of this morning came back and the autodog felt even more nauseous. There were two of them inside... Not just one. Two.

Cycling a heavy intake, Tracks shifted slightly, rubbing at his protruding middle; still too weak in the joints to move further or get up. What was he going to do? He couldn't terminate at this point, Ratchet had told him, but... Primus, could anyone give him some answers? Some sense of direction? Feeling heat rise to his optics, the pomeranian rubbed his face into the pillows, forcing himself to cycle even intakes. There was no point letting himself get overwhelmed again, and anger would help no more either. He still didn't even know where he was, Tracks realized. Glancing around the room as he had done earlier that orn, the escort noticed just then that there was a tray on the little coffee table in the sitting area; laden with what looked like breakfast, and accompanied by a gorgeous, porcelain tea set. He didn't know when that had been brought in or for how long it sat there, but it surely must of gone cold by now. Should he eat it still? Was there any reason to?As he pondered if he was truly hungry or not, the door opened, and a strange femme wandered in, dressed in black and carrying a covered tray.

The maid paused, noticing that the pomeranian was awake, then glanced at the coffee table, where his breakfast laid untouched. "I have brought lunch," she announced, heading over to the sitting area. She swapped the trays and even picked up the tea set. "I'll have another pot brought in shortly. Dinner will be served at five o'clock."

Tracks didn't say a word and the femme didn't seem to care. She left, not looking back once, and the autodog didn't blame her. Who would want to stare at a pathetic, ugly, pregnant has-been escort anyway? Noticing that he was still rubbing his belly, the autodog finally stopped, pushing himself up slowly. It took some effort, with how weak and rubbery his limbs felt, but Tracks eventually made his way over to one of the large windows. Beautiful gardens and long sloping hills tapered down to a valley that the mech realized was Iacon city itself.

Hill estate, attending servants and gorgeous rooms... Where ever Tracks was, he was most definitely at the mercy of someone rich. But who could of possibly...?

The door opened again, and turning his helm, the pomeranian wasn't surprised to see the maid returned, with a new tea set as she had said. She didn't comment on his strange post beside the window nor did he say anything to her as she went about setting the tea pot and accompaniments beside his lunch. When she was almost at the door, he said softly, "...Who is the master of this household?"

The femme paused and turned to him, curtseying slightly as was likely part of her duty. "The Estate and everything within in belongs to Mr. Soundwave," she answered. "He asks that your every need be met, so please, do not hesitate to call for anything."

The maid waited about a klik, but Tracks could say nothing. A part of him was stunned, yet another part not, and seeing that no response was coming, the femme finally left. He was in Soundwave's home...

**xxXxXxx**

Ultra Magnus startled as the front door slammed; turning, he watched as Rodimus practically storm into the kitchen, lip components twisted in a snarl. "Y-you... you... fragger!," the golden retriever bellowed, throwing a maroon folder at the larger mech. "How dare you-"

"Rodimus!," the great dane interrupted, scowling, "Watch your tone -you're indoors. Have you come to apologize for your behaviour the last week?"

The golden retriever gaped, pausing, before laughing bitterly as he backed away a couple pede steps. "A-apologize...? Really? Y-you want me to apologize for y-you running me out of the only place I've known as home," Rodimus struggled to say, coolant glazing over his optics, still smiling in disbelief, "F-for you treating me like s-some... some... stray after what happened with that kittycon?!"

"You were fornicating in the entry way, Rodimus," Ultra Magnus replied crisply, untying his tie and yanking it off quickly. "I saw what was taking place: the fervent and senseless lust that you were giving into, the inappropriate display of debauchery I had to witness. I had raised you better than this!"

"O-oh, oh," the red mech bit back, "You're going to bring that up? Now? I'm sorry, you must of forgotten that jug of high-grade on the counter beside the fridge there. Is that a seven litre jug or a five litre?"

The older lawyer stiffened, turning his helm and catching the fore-mentioned jug. How could he have forgotten that it was there? "What I choose to drink and when is my own business," he said, facing the younger mech once again. "We are on the topic of your frivalous interfacing habits."

Rodimus snorted, stepping forward. "Well, before we start attacking me again for having a one-time mistake with a loser, let's take a gander at your own sins!" An accusatory finger pointed to the folder that Ultra Magnus still held tightly in one servo. "Go ahead! Open it up -you'll be fragging surprised at what's inside! I know I was!"

"What are you-" Ultra Magnus cut himself off before he could even finish, flipping the folder open carelessly and watching in abject horror as a photograph came tumbling out. Silence fell onto the kitchen then. Cycling intakes slowly, the great dane refrained from picking up the picture, instead raising his optics towards the waiting autodog.

Rodimus was stiff, tears pooled thicker along his optics as he stared back at the bigger lawyer angrily. "...I knew it," the golden retriever barked shortly. "Y-you... you torture me over one interface, while you-"

"I had nothing to do with this youngling, this-"

"DON'T LIE TO ME!," the younger mech shouted. "Y-you criticize me for t-that, that... mech, and you've been seeing a youngling in secret, popping boners over his skinny a-aft, OH! OH! Not to mention he's also a KITTYCON. So not only are you into kiddies, you're a fragging racist aft unless things are about you!"

Ultra Magnus took a step forward, looming over the golden retriever tensely. "Silence!," he growled. "I don't know where you got this information from, but I am not debating this with you. You are my son; that is my private life and you are never allowed to step over that line!"

At the intimidation tactic, Rodimus reacted, shoving the great dane back with more strength than he seemed to have in his slimmer frame. Caught off-guard, the older lawyer tripped, slamming into the table and hearing a worrisome groan at the impact.

"Stop. Calling. Me. That!," the golden retriever hissed, optics lit with furious light as the tears finally broke free and cascaded down his cheekplates. "I'm so sick of... Frag you! You take away all of my identity and force me into your little 'pretend house' but guess what: YOU'RE NOT MY REAL SIRE!"

"Rodimus, you-" Ultra Magnus started to growl, but Rodimus had already twirled on his heel and fled; the slamming door heralding his exit.

**xxXxXxx**

It was dark before Soundwave finally left his office to go eat. The servants were just wrapping up the routine cleaning of the dining room when the persian entered, and surprised, he went to apologize, but the servants didn't allow him the chance. They gathered their items and kindly told the kittycon that they would inform the kitchen staff that he had come down and dinner would be brought out shortly. Seeing as he didn't have much choice in the matter, Soundwave thanked them for their hard work and took his usual seat at the table.

He stared down the length of it as he waited, eleven empty seats staring back at him. The blue mech wondered why he had ever agreed to buying this ridiculous table. He never had any guests over to fill it, no family or friends either, leaving all the extra chairs to simply taunt him in silent mockery. Though, that was to change soon...

Two. He had two sparklings soon to be protoformed. One had been more than plenty when he had heard Tracks was carrying, sending him off to fantasies of two less chairs to pick at him cruelly during dinner time. At least now, there would still be two chairs to fill in the near future, as he finally gave in to the fact that the autodog would probably never feel anything for the persian but animosity. Ears flattened and even his frame slouched a tad in his seat. He shouldn't have forced Tracks to keep the sparks, Soundwave realized with regret. In doing so, the kittycon had effectively turned the pomeranian against him and lost any chance at pursuing a real relationship with the beautiful mech. He'd never hated himself more than Soundwave did just then.

He'd already discussed things with Ratchet, and tomorrow Tracks would be taken to the hospital for the duration of his pregnancy. Flare-up was still angry that her employee had managed to escape his house-arrest, but she had conceded to the vet's point that his current situation was not faring well on his mental health and could end in more harm done to the sparklings than not. There was no resistance from the femme as she signed over Tracks' release to Ratchet and no comment either on Soundwave keeping the autodog at his mansion temporarily.

As if the persian would allow her to take Tracks back after the other night...

The kittycon was spared from his despairing thoughts as a few of his servants strode in, carrying trays of food, dishware, dessert and wine; setting the table up and leaving the mech to his meal. Quietly, Soundwave began to eat, distracting himself from thoughts of Tracks or the sparklings that would come soon; all the while unaware of the pomeranian quietly peeking into the dining room from one of the other doorways.

**C.M.D: What is this? Ultra Magnus isn't Rodimus' sire? Tracks is at Soundwave's? Wheeljack knows the jettwins were in heat?! I wonder what will happen next... Stay tuned to find out!**  
><strong>P.S: The youngling Ultra Magnus has feelings for is brought to you by DA user Drago-night who, though the character belongs to another user, made me like their shipping of RanRapidshock (the youngling) with Ultra Magnus. So much for my ever loyal UMxHot Rod ship...**  
><strong>Be kind; give me your mind~ Review, please?<strong>


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